


Standing Close

by Slow_Burn_Sally



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, First Time, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Slow Burn, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 15:41:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21659548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slow_Burn_Sally/pseuds/Slow_Burn_Sally
Summary: Just your average slow burn. Sort of pre Richenbach, cannon divergence.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 31
Kudos: 187
Collections: Sherlock and John Stories that Ease the Soul





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just your average slow burn. Sort of pre Richenbach, cannon divergence.

John could not quite pinpoint the moment he knew he loved Sherlock. It was really an amalgam of moments, some subtle, some profound, a tapestry of moments, words, looks, thoughts that wove themselves together into a deep and abiding love for the infuriating detective. 

There was the moment he first saw Sherlock, long and lean and focused on the eyepieces of a microscope in St. Barts lab. His black jacket contrasting so starkly with his alabaster skin and dark curls. And the way he’d so casually summed up John’s life with a flick of his ice blue eyes. Well.. it had taken John’s breath away. He’d known then that he was in the presence of someone special. Had known that the rabbit-fast beating of his heart upon hearing Sherlock’s baritone voice pick apart the details of John’s life as if describing a television program he’d seen… it was a precursor of something more. Something thrilling. 

Back then he hadn’t known that this sparking feeling of curiosity and delight back in that lab would grow and deepen into something surprisingly strong. That he would end up hopelessly devoted to the rude, abrupt man with the pale blue eyes that he now called a flatmate and a friend. Back then, he’d simply been fascinated by Sherlock’s intellect. 

And yes, of course he’d acknowledged to himself that the man was attractive. John rarely fancied men. His dating history was largely with women, peppered by a few rare rendevous with blokes he found particularly appealing. Sherlock wasn’t even on his short list of the types he liked, as he preferred stocky, dark skinned men and waifish light haired twinks. Every once in a while, perhaps five or six times in all of his dating history, a man who generally fit one of those descriptions had come along, had given him a smoldering look at the pub, or a friend of a friend he’d thought was cute would sit a bit close to him on the sofa at a mixer. It would swiftly develop into a tryst in a back room, or he’d go on a date or two. But these relationships often fizzled out quickly for John. He wasn’t sure why, but thought it might have something to do with the fact that society, especially twenty years ago when John had first started dating in earnest, wasn’t quite comfortable with men displaying romantic affection publicly, or with bisexuality in general. John therefore had few opportunities to meet men he was interested in, other than going to a gay bar, and he didn’t like the pumping loud music of clubs. And so this narrowed down his chances of meeting a man that would knock his socks off. He tended to date men based on outward appearance, with personalities that didn’t quite jive with his. And of course, he had far more access to women. 

He was considered fairly attractive (or so he’d been told by several of his dates), but rarely had he ever been called handsome. The words “cute” and “hot” were tossed in his direction fairly often. But not “handsome”. Not “beautiful”. This never bothered John. He was an ex military man and a doctor. He could save lives. He didn’t need to have his looks praised. Sherlock on the other hand was unreservedly beautiful in a way that transcended gender. And so John noticed this, though it didn’t have much bearing on his feelings right away.

His bisexuality was something he never spoke to Sherlock about, and whether Sherlock had deduced as much about John by how he buttoned up his coat, or by the way he stirred his tea or some such other ridiculously obscure manner of deduction, the taller man had never broached the subject. And so it was that John could openly admit to himself, from the very beginning that Sherlock was quite attractive. Tall and lanky and well muscled, with a face carved out of cold, white marble. He was beautiful yes. But that hadn’t quite hit home immediately for John. Not in the beginning. In the beginning, he’d only seen Sherlock’s brilliant skills at deduction. Had felt the sting of his bruised ego at the man’s sharp, derisive comments and rude dismissive attitude. 

And yet he was still curious. His intrigue over Sherlock’s dazzling intellect had stunned him into agreeing to come and look at the flat at 221B Baker Street. And the flat had been spacious (if a bit cluttered by Sherlock’s many projects and knicknacks), with plenty of room for two people to live comfortably together. 

From the moment he’d agreed to move in, his life had changed irrevocably. Before Sherlock, John had seen a long road of stifling general practitioner jobs, accompanied by the dull ache of his old war wound flaring up to cause him semi-constant discomfort. After the blazing heat and wild adrenaline of stitching together wounded soldiers under the threat of enemy fire, London had looked gray and cold and boring to John’s war-tempered eyes. 

That is until he’d accompanied Sherlock on their first case together. Then.. oh then, the man’s brilliant mind had really had the room to stretch out and show itself off. Sherlock was a performer at heart. John knew that now. He loved the shock and awe on the faces of the Scotland Yard Inspectors and forensic experts as his deep, rumbling voice swiftly destroyed all of their presuppositions and replaced them with Sherlock’s own genius deductions. His pale, slender hands waved through the air, dismissing the sluggish questions of the police with a flick of his elegant fingers, or evoking a descriptive pantomime surrounding a piece of evidence to help him drive home a point. He spoke with his hands as much as with his deep voice. His shoulders and arms and the mobile expressions on his high cheek-boned face added to the drama of his performance as he let the details of the case and the clues he’d so swiftly categorized and filed away in his fantastic brain, spill from his mouth in a casual rush. It was hard for most of the detectives and police in attendance to follow him, let alone to parse out how he’d come up with these deductions. They’d stood there in stunned silence, faces half-resentful, half awed as Sherlock spoke. 

John was stunned too, but unlike Anderson and the other officers and inspectors whom Sherlock so swiftly dismissed, he wasn’t resentful or envious. He instead felt a wild joy bubbling up inside him at the sight and sound of Sherlock’s genius brain at work. He was blown away by the speed of the tall man’s deductions. In awe of the way his brain collected and categorized and fit so many disparate pieces of information together to leap to such clever conclusions. It was magic. It was theater. It was a display of inhuman skill. Sherlock was a force of nature, and John felt his breath being swept away in a rush at witnessing his genius at work. 

He could tell that Sherlock enjoyed John’s awe of him. He could tell by the way the tall man preened and looked pleased, at how a small smile would play at the corners of his soft lips when John exclaimed over how incredible his deductions were. He could see and feel Sherlock glow with pride at John’s compliments, even as he brushed them aside with a dismissive word and a casual insult over the dullness and predictability of “normal people”. 

This preening and those little smiles in John’s direction was the first indication John had that Sherlock liked him back. That the seeds of a good friendship had taken root and started to grow. It wasn’t easy.. Living with Sherlock. Being friends with Sherlock. For every moment that they shared an irreverent burst of laughter or a cozy evening, deep in the discussion of some case or another, there was also a rude comment or a derisive dismissal. John regularly wanted to throttle Sherlock for his uncaring insensitivity. The way the man could cut John to the quick with a few simple words, it still stung. But then… as if sensing what he’d done, Sherlock had a way of tacitly apologizing. Offering to fix John a cup of tea. Praising John’s deductive reasoning on a recent case. Letting his hand linger warmly on John’s shoulder a little too long when passing him in the hallway. John took these little, indirect apologies to heart. He let them be a soothing balm for the sharp tongue and sometimes heartless sting of Sherlock’s impatience or disapproval. 

And as the months went by and they grew accustomed to each other’s patterns and mannerisms, John could sense a definite lessening of the snarky comments and insults. He felt a subtle and continual thawing of Sherlock’s cold, outer demeanor towards John. It was so gradual that John doubted he’d have noticed had he not been so focused on Sherlock’s behavior towards him. But, perhaps because of John’s semi-intense scrutiny of Sherlock’s fascinating and largely unpredictable behaviors, he began to notice a softening. A gentling of the pale, intense man’s behavior towards John. Sherlock was slowly letting John in. Slowly opening up to him. 

It was this gentling that first clued John in to the fact that he might be falling for Sherlock. The moment Sherlock opened up a little bit, smiled a little longer, complimented John a little more blatantly on his assistance or his medical acumen, John felt himself rushing to fill those tiny spaces as swiftly as possible. As if he were liquid and Sherlock was a stretch of arid ground that had just begun to crack to admit him access beneath the surface. He leaned a bit too readily into Sherlock’s warm, companionable touches to the arm or their bumping of shoulders as they sat side by side in the pub. He smiled too swiftly and too brightly at Sherlock’s remarks of “good job John” or “I’d never have caught that unless you’d pointed it out John”. 

It was John’s abject eagerness to respond to Sherlock’s small kindnesses that tipped the ex army medic off at first to his deepening feelings. All those little moments started to coalesce into a pulling, yearning feeling inside John’s chest when he looked at his flatmate. Yes. He loved Sherlock. In the way that a person loves a dear friend, with profound respect and admiration and affection. But also, he felt a strong stirring of romantic attraction between the surface of this love. He found himself transfixed by the long lines of Sherlock’s limbs in his dressing gown. The lanky expanse of a flannel encased thigh and the pale elegance of Sherlock’s bare feet as he lounged about on the couch in his pajamas. He found himself thrilling to the sound of the other man’s deep, rumbling voice when he greeted John in the morning. 

John was no fool. He knew he’d fallen rather hopelessly in love, and he knew that his love had a very slim chance of being returned by the object of his affections. Sherlock was either decidely asexual, or regretably not attracted to John, or to men, or both. He never spoke a word of sexual desire, never made a ribald joke or a single innuendo to clue John to the possibility that the other man might think about or desire sex in any way. Nor was he particularly romantic in nature. This being of course a startling understatement. Sherlock was death to romance. His cynicism and abrupt criticisms and his perverse delight over the inspecting of dead bodies didn’t leave a lot of room for the fluffy pink clouds of romantic yearning expressed by more normal, sentimental people. 

The only time John felt that Sherlock might have a soft or romantic heart beating inside his chest came when he heard the man play the violin. Then and only then did the beautiful poetry of complex human emotional expression spill from Sherlock as his elegant, pale hands twitched across the strings of his violin. He worked the bow with a mastery that spoke of hours upon hours upon hours of practice. John’s breath had caught in his throat the first time he’d witnessed Sherlock play. The detective had picked up the violin and bow and begun playing one night, so seamlessly that John had barely noticed him do so, until the vibrating, mournful notes had begun echoing in the still air of the flat. 

The sight of Sherlock, tall and dark clad, face set in a serious expression of concentration as he played, and the absolutely haunting beauty of the tune he wrung with loving precision from the instrument in his hands had struck John to his core. Surely a man who could make such beautiful, meaningful music must have the capacity for a deeper sort of romantic yearning in his heart? 

After the performance however, Sherlock had promptly put the violin down and asked John why he was staring at him so, with his mouth hanging open like a hooked carp, and John had been jolted back to the cold reality that Sherlock could be quite a wanker when he wanted to be. Still though… Still… A man could hope couldn’t he? 

His mind went back to their first evening spent together, staking out the taxi cab killer from a cozy restaurant across the street. How John had broached the subject of Sherlock’s love life, only to be brusquely rebuffed and to have Sherlock gently (for Sherlock that was) let him down easy saying that he was married to his job. At the time, John had been horrified by Sherlock’s assumption that he’d been hitting on him. He’d only been gently curious about the strange, elusive man’s romantic history. But now.. 

Now, after several months of daily contact with Sherlock, of being let in by increments, and of feeling their connection deepen and grow into a solid friendship, John knew that he wasn’t just curious any longer. He was _ invested _ in Sherlock’s sexual orientation and relationship status. He now knew that the infuriating consulting detective was perpetually single, but was no closer to confirming whether he was an asexual virgin, or a repressed gay man or a straight man who simply found the solving of mysteries more enticing than the seducing of women. John had to chuckle a little to himself at the idea that Sherlock could keep any woman around longer than the five minutes it would take to insult her repeatedly without even trying to do so. Not to mention any man other than John. 

And although Sherlock had effectively rejected him, rejected him before John had even decided truly that he wanted to ask for a romantic connection with Sherlock, he hadn’t said “I don’t swing that way” or “I’m straight” or even “I’m not attracted to you”. He’d simply said “I’m married to my work and not looking for anything..” which is as far as John had let him get before swiftly correcting his assumption and reassuring Sherlock that he hadn’t been hitting on him after all. 

And so he’d simply acknowledged his feelings for the other man to himself and had worked hard to move on. While Sherlock kept letting him slowly inside the other man’s carefully constructed walls, as Sherlock told him of his childhood and revealed to him his fears and weaknesses and laughed more easily, smiled more readily with John, this opening never took a sexual or romantic turn. 

________________________________________________

It was a quiet November evening and John and Sherlock were sitting together in the flat, John with a book, Sherlock tap tapping away at his laptop, writing some sort of incomprehensible blog entry about the quality of potting soil or some such other obscure forensic thing or another. There was a decidedly cozy feeling to their silence. A coziness John had earned by stubbornly refusing to be put off by Sherlocks many thoughtless barbs, and by eeking himself out a warm bubble of companionable silence in Sherlock’s presence. John had worked hard to get to this place of intimacy and trust with Sherlock, and possibly sensing how hard John worked to stay close to him, Sherlock had eased up on his prickly nature and now they happily spent many an evening like this, working on projects together. Every once in a while, Sherlock would raise his head from the bright glow of his computer screen to ask John a random question, and John would pull his eyes away from his book to reply. It was… nice. It felt… domestic. 

“You keep glancing over here at me. Why is it you’re doing that?” Sherlock asked, shocking John out of his place in his book to look up at the other man, his mouth hanging open in surprise. 

“I haven’t been” he exclaimed reflexively, realizing too late that he had in fact been sneaking glances at Sherlock quite a bit that evening. 

“You have. It’s quite obvious.” Sherlock replied, not even bothering to raise his eyes from the screen of his laptop as he spoke. “I mean you normally look at me quite a lot when you think I won’t notice, but tonight, it’s at a new level. Just wondering if you’re OK”

John felt his face grow hot. “Oh… well.. I’m fine. It’s nothing. Nothing at all. I must just be curious about what you’re writing” John replied weakly. How could he tell Sherlock the truth, which was _ I can’t seem to tear my eyes off your gorgeous face, which is extra beautiful when you’re lost in thought _. That would decidedly not be well received. 

“No.. that’s not it John. You’ve never shown an ounce of interest in my blog posts. Quite the opposite. You’ve actively mocked me for them. So why is it that you keep glancing over here? Is there something wrong with my face? Are you guilty of something? Did you break another one of my large beakers?” Here he did glance up, fixing John with a narrowing of eyes in a suspicious glare. 

John was relieved to hear evidence of Sherlock’s obliviousness over the reason he’d been gazing at him furtively all night. If it weren’t for Sherlock’s utter cluelessness over the nuances of human emotional needs, he’s have been found out months ago. 

“There’s nothing wrong with your face Sherlock. And no, I didn’t break one of your beakers, though, to be fair, if you didn’t keep them precariously balanced on the edge of the sink like that, I’d never have broken the first one”

“Don’t change the subject” Sherlock snapped, closing his laptop with a click and turning all of his hawk-like attention to John. John, who suddenly wished he could sink down and disappear into his armchair. “You’ve been acting strange lately, and I want to know why. I’m a world famous detective John, don’t imagine that you can put me off with lame excuses and insipid changes of subject. You should know better by now” 

“Jesus Christ Sherlock!” John was now resorting to anger as a way of deflecting Sherlock’s scrutiny. Not that it was likely to work. “I don’t have some sort of nefarious purpose behind looking at you. You’re sitting right in front of me. There isn’t bloody much else to look at _ aside _from you now is there?” He hoped that this would get Sherlock to back off. The truth of the matter, that his yearning had reached a fever pitch over the course of the past few weeks was not something he was prepared to discuss. 

“Yes John, fair points. It’s simply the frequency and the furtive nature of your looks that makes me curious as to what’s behind them. You are _ sneaking _ glances at me, as if you’re afraid that I’ll catch you. And I did… catch you that is. I’m quite observant, or had you forgotten that?”

John sighed in frustration and snapped his book shut. “How could I ever forget that? You won’t bloody _ let _me forget it.” He hoisted himself to his feet with a grunt, deciding it was high time to cut this line of questioning short before Sherlock ferreted something truly embarrassing out of him. “And now if you don’t mind, I think I’ll call it a night. You seem a bit snippy and I’m tired”. 

“M’not _ snippy _” Sherlock grumbled after him as John made his way towards his room. “You’re the one acting strangely. Not my fault I noticed it”. 

John didn’t bother responding. He made his way to his room and closed the door, leaning up against it and burying his face in his hands. _ Shit, shit, shit, shit _ . Sherlock _ knew _ something was up with him. Of course he did. John should have known better than to try to keep anything from Sherlock. Yes, the man could be startlingly oblivious of certain things others would find obviously apparent. He couldn’t sense arousal from the _ way _ people looked at each other, from that special gleam of passion in a would-be lover’s eye, but he _ could _ sense it from the speed of their heart rates or by their elevated body temperature. Anything to do with logic and science and pattern recognition (or deviations from well established patterns) and he was on top of it. But the subtle nuances of _ why _ people were drawn to each other, or why they would be angry at each other, or why they’d be sad over something often escaped him.

So now Sherlock knew that something was different about John’s behavior. The pattern of the way John had been with him since the beginning of their friendship had changed to the point that it counted as a deviation, and was therefore of interest to Sherlock. Blessedly, the hawk-eyed detective would probably be lost on what those changes meant, which was why he hadn’t already leapt to the conclusion that John desired him, loved him. 

John was fairly sure he didn’t know of John’s feelings because pulling punches or avoiding uncomfortable topics was not something Sherlock was capable of doing. Almost every thought he had, eventually found its way out of his mouth, regardless of its appropriateness or brashness or cruelty. After many months of Molly and Mrs. Hudson and John giving him cross looks and (on occasion in Molly or Mrs. Hudson’s case) shedding hurt tears, he’d learned to think a bit before he spoke, but that was no guarantee that he’d save John the utter embarrassment of calling him out over his secret attraction, should Sherlock discover it. 

That still left the issue of what John was to do now. Could he perhaps double down on suppressing his urges to look at Sherlock? Try to calm his breath and heart rate around the tall, handsome detective? It felt as if he were already keeping a pretty tight lid on things as it was. Though the whole glancing-at-Sherlock-when-he-wasn’t-looking situation probably had to stop. Best to just assume that Sherlock would always see him looking. Possibly even when his back was turned. The man had a way of catching things in the reflective surface of the door of the microwave that most other people missed even when it happened in front of their faces. 

_ Why me? Why him? _ John found himself thinking. Why couldn’t he have fallen for a nice girl with a normal job? And of all the men for him to fall head over heels in love with, after never falling for a man before, why did it have to be the most eccentric, infuriating, insightful, clinical, borderline sociopath he’d ever met? What must be wrong with John that he’d have feelings like this for a person like Sherlock? 

It was pointless to second guess his feelings. He’d spent weeks trying to talk himself out of it, throwing himself into internet dating and having a few unsatisfying one night stands in his attempts to shake himself of the yearning that clenched in his chest when he looked at his flatmate. And yet every time he’d come home from such a date, there would be Sherlock, hunched over his laptop, or lying on the couch, staring up at the ceiling, or pinning some newspaper article to the wall to help him with a case, and just the sight of him, tall and pale and beautiful would turn John’s insides to liquid fire. 

He’d tried using logic on the problem. He’d read a few blogs by people who’d fallen for narcissistic sociopaths, hoping for insight. Unfortunately, the people these bloggers referred to were nothing like Sherlock. Yes, Sherlock could appear heartless and uncaring at times, but as John grew to know him better and better, he’d learned that a lot of the brusque rudeness and lack of caring Sherlock exhibited was actually just vulnerability and vanity. And that much of Sherlock’s disdain for politeness and tact was in fact just a disdain for the fakeness and frivolousness of social niceties. With Sherlock, one always knew where one stood. He could be trusted not to waste time with how-to-dos and talk about the weather. He often didn’t care about the hurtful things that he said, but he _ did _ care that people got hurt when he said them. So he could not be made to see that it was wrong to tell Molly that he thought she’d be single forever. To Sherlock, he truly believed that Molly’s mousy looks and shy demeanor meant she would remain single for the foreseeable future. To him it was a simple fact, and when he believed something to be a fact, he lost sight of how it could be insulting. Unless of course it was a criticism of Sherlock himself. Then it wasn’t fact at all and was highly insulting to _ him. _

But despite his insensitivity, Sherlock _ could _ eventually be made to see that it _ had hurt Molly _ when he’d said that bit about her remaining forever single, and upon seeing this, he would clearly feel bad about that and apologize. Not what your typical narcissist or sociopath would do. 

Also, there was a deep well of caring inside Sherlock for his friends, few and beleaguered though they were. He _ did _ care about the people he let get close to him, and as far as John knew, he himself had managed to get the closest to the maddening detective out of everyone. Even though Sherlock liked referring to himself as a “high functioning sociopath”, John knew that the title wasn’t an actual, medical diagnosis. He’d checked in with Mycroft about that a few months ago, only to be told that the mysterious political juggernaut’s little brother had never been evaluated by a psychotherapist and that he did indeed enjoy referring to himself as a sociopath, mainly for the effect it had on those he told such things to. 

And so John reassured himself that his attraction and subsequent romantic feelings for Sherlock weren’t irrefutable signs that John himself had some sort of strange, masochistic kink for unfeeling psychopaths. It made sense as John typically did prefer warm, loving partners. He himself was a very warm and loving person, well liked by a wide array of friends and acquaintances. It was John’s earthy, friendly attitude that helped smooth over the hurt feelings of those clients and others that Sherlock ran roughshod over in the course of working a case, or when simply attending a Christmas party or press release. 

Then what was it that drew him in so strongly towards Sherlock? If not a suppressed codependency from childhood or a bout of low self esteem or any of the other common explanations for why a kind and understanding person usually fell for a cold, unresponsive person, then what was it? John went through periods of pretending to himself that he didn’t know why he loved Sherlock. The truth though was that he knew why. Knew it in his bones. 

It was because Sherlock was breathtaking. His mind was fascinating and brilliant, an ever ticking clockwork of razor sharp intuition. His looks were stunning, like those of a grecian marble statue with ice blue eyes and dark curling hair. His sex appeal was undeniable with that deep baritone voice and the elegant movements of his body and the dark, well tailored fit of his clothing. He was a striking figure. John was sure many men and women had approached Sherlock over the course of his life, only to swiftly withdraw when faced with his abrasive personality. Why John had not withdrawn was a mystery, even to himself. But why he could find himself attracted to the man wasn’t really all that hard to understand, once he’d acknowledged it and come to terms with it of course. 

It still felt like a cruel twist of fate though that he was so very attached to the consulting detective while being almost certain that Sherlock could not return those feelings. 

John crept into bed and tried not to think too much about Sherlock’s sharp blue eyes scrutinizing him as he fell into a fitful sleep. 


	2. Chapter 2

The next day at breakfast, John strove to remain casual and keep from looking at Sherlock too often. He kept his eyes trained mostly on his newspaper, ignoring the pale swath of Sherlock’s long neck peaking above the crossed edges of his dark dressing gown. It didn’t help that Sherlock’s hair was charmingly disheveled by sleep and that the hot tea he was drinking was causing two spots of light pink to appear high on his cheeks. All of this John took in briefly with a few quick glances, before mumbling “morning Sherlock” and receding into the crisp folds of his paper. 

They sat quietly for several minutes, both reading, Sherlock on his tablet, a plate of toast sitting untouched between them. 

“There’s been another murder,” Sherlock’s words made John jump slightly as the detective’s deep voice broke the silence. “Lestrade will be on his way over soon. Mark my words.”

“Really? Huh.” John replied, turning the page.

“I’m honestly surprised you missed it John. You were just reading the second page, and that’s where the story is featured.”

“How did you? Oh never mind” John gave up trying to comprehend Sherlock’s powers of deduction and instead reached for a piece of toast to cover for his slip. He hadn’t been reading the paper at all. His thoughts had still been focused on the compelling memory of the sight of Sherlock’s swan like neck. 

“You didn’t see the story because you’re not reading the paper at all. Only pretending to read it. Why is that John? What’s gotten into you lately?”

John gaped at him over the folded down page of the paper between them. “Nothing’s the matter” He said quickly “nothing’s gotten into me Sherlock.” 

The other man gave him a pointed look that said he didn’t believe a word John was saying and John sighed. “There’s just some tough patients I have to deal with at work,” he lied.

“You’re lying” Sherlock said, oh so calmly, his face a neutral mask. “Why are you lying to me?” He put his tablet down and leaned towards John from his seat across the table. “What’s going on John? You know I’ll get it out of you eventually”.

John knew more lies wouldn’t work. But the truth, that he was struggling on a daily basis not to grab Sherlock and kiss him, was not an option. He sighed again and decided on evasiveness and omission. “Alright. Fine. Something  _ has _ gotten under my skin, but.. I can’t tell you about it. It’s personal.”

“Is it sexual dysfunction? Because if so, I’d recommend putting away the porn for a few weeks. I’ve seen your browser history John. No one needs to wank that often.”

John blushed furiously and spluttered a bit before gaining control of his faculties again. “Dear God Sherlock, have you no sense of privacy?” He knew the answer to that would be a resounding ‘no’ so he simply continued speaking, not expecting Sherlock to respond “It’s not sexual dysfunction. I’m just struggling with something. Something you can’t help with and probably wouldn’t understand.”

“Ah. It must be a woman then” Sherlock’s eyes had lit up the way they usually did when he was hot on the trail of solving a case. “Who is she John? The chubby blond from last week or that one with the hook nose from Wednesday? They’re both passably attractive, but neither of them deserve you.”

“Sherlock! No. It’s not a woman,” John exclaimed, and then his brain caught up with what Sherlock had said “And what do you mean they don’t deserve me?”

“You’re far too good for either of them John. Far too good for most of the women you date.” Having said that, Sherlock went back to his tablet, absently scrolling through a newsfeed, as if he hadn’t just delivered one of the most genuine and flattering compliments of their entire relationship. John couldn’t help it. He had to push a little bit. 

“In what way?” he asked, heart pounding in his chest. 

“In what way what?” Sherlock, being maddenly obtuse, continued scrolling. 

“In what way am I too good for them Sherlock?”

“Oh, in every way imaginable really.” 

John felt his face grow hot and his palms started sweating. “Could you… I don’t know.. Be more specific?” he asked, kicking himself for the needy tone he heard in his voice. But how exactly was he supposed to let a comment like that sit? Especially made by the one person he wanted ever so badly to get closer to, to earn the respect and admiration of. 

Sherlock did not look up from his tablet. His finger kept swiping idly up the screen as if he was almost completely absorbed in the news stories he saw scrolling by, and he spoke as if absentmindedly talking about something that meant far, far less to either of them. Like a shopping list or the quality of the tea they were drinking. “Well, for starters, you’re more intelligent than most of the women you choose to become involved with. The vast majority of them seem to mainly be concerned with television programs and the state of their hair and not at all interested in art or literature or… I don’t know...criminal forensics. You’re very smart John. Too smart for them.”

John’s mouth fell open in surprise. Sherlock was being simplistic of course. He probably focused in on John’s date’s comments about more shallow subjects. They weren’t as empty headed as he made them out to be by a long shot. But it still made his pulse race to hear the other man describe him flatteringly. He wasn’t quite sure what to say in response, which turned out not to be a problem, because Sherlock wasn’t done yet. 

“Also,” he continued “you’re very conscientious and quite caring for those you’re close to, and most of the women you date seem quite self centered and a bit vain. Perhaps that’s because many of them align very well with modern standards of beauty. Regardless John, I wouldn’t waste too much time being hung up on any of them. One day, a partner of the appropriate caliber will come along and you’ll find that you won’t need to worry about them, that you’ll simply...love them, and all will be well”.

John swallowed audibly and tried in vain to drag his eyes away from Sherlock’s face, still pale and impassive and focused down towards his tablet on the table.  _ He said ‘partner’, not ‘woman’. He said ‘they’, not ‘she’.  _ His addled brain caught onto those possibly arbitrary details and clung to them. Perhaps… no.  _ It couldn’t be _ …

“Um. So, when do you think I’ll meet this fantastic partner?” he asked, trying in vain to keep the shake out of his voice. 

“Perhaps you’ve already met them John. Perhaps they’ve loved you for quite some time and haven’t found the courage to speak up about it."

_ Oh dear god in heaven please let him be referring to himself _ John thought numbly. 

“Perhaps… someone like… “ here, Sherlock paused, and John realized he had forgotten to breathe for the past few seconds. “Someone like Molly maybe?” Sherlock finished his sentence, and John felt the air rush out of his lungs in a frustrated huff.

“Molly?!” He exclaimed, feeling his heart sink. “Sherlock. Molly is a lovely girl, but surely you can’t think I’d ever… I mean, we’re friends and all. I like her quite a bit, but… she’s simply not my type” 

“How about me then?” Sherlock replied. His tone was so casual that for a split second, John almost didn’t comprehend what he’d just said. 

“How about… I’m sorry. What?”  _ I can’t have heard that right. I can’t have.  _

“Never mind John. It was a joke. Just a joke. I think I’ll go get ready for Lestrade’s little visit. On second thought, perhaps we should head to the station? Let’s cut him off at the pass shall we?” He’d risen from his chair and was looking down at John with patient, polite eyes, as if he hadn’t just said something that was making John’s heart explode inside his chest. 

“Sherlock.. I” John found he couldn’t speak. His mouth opened and worked silently, but his traitorous tongue wouldn’t form any words. 

“Fine then, I’ll go alone” 

Sherlock turned and walked away. It took John roughly four seconds to gather his wits and propel himself out of the kitchen chair to follow him. He caught up with Sherlock outside of his bedroom, poised to open the door and step inside. John forestalled him with a hand on his shoulder, but then, when Sherlock turned to face him, he lost his momentum, and simply stood there, staring at Sherlock with his mouth slightly ajar, completely lost on what to say next. 

“John. I need to get ready to go to the station. Have you changed your mind about coming with me? If not, it would be best if you said what you wanted to say or let me go get changed.”

“You.. you said something back there.” John knew he sounded mentally deficient. Knew he was staring at Sherlock with round eyes full of shock. He couldn’t seem to get himself together enough to make a coherent statement. “You said. ‘What about me?’”

“Yes I did. And it was a joke. You know, how Mrs. Hudson is always assuming we’re a couple. Just a joke. I hope you didn’t think..”   
  
“No! Of course not.” John tried to keep his tone from sounding too strangled. He hated to deny his attraction, in the face of it’s overwhelming presence in his life, in the face of the man he was desperately crushing on, but what else could he do? Sherlock had been  _ joking _ . Of course he had. Never mind that he’d never joked about them being an item before. Never mind that the whole lead up to this supposed joke sounded quite serious and heartfelt. Never mind all of that. It was  _ just a joke _ . 

“Right. Then, if you don’t mind…” Sherlock let the sentence hang as he leaned towards the doorway to his room, clearly impatient to get going. 

“Yes. Of course. Sorry Sherlock. Give me a minute. I will come with you after all, if you don’t mind. I’ll just go and get changed.”

Sherlock nodded and went into his room, closing the door behind him. John, veins throbbing with spent adrenaline, wandered off to his own bedroom and dazedly pulled on new pants and a shirt. All he could think of though was Sherlock’s casual tone, saying  _ what about me? _ Had he heard a note of hope in the other man’s voice? Or had that been his imagination? He didn’t trust himself to know for sure due to the unbelievable amount of personal bias he held toward the subject. 

He rejoined Sherlock in the sitting room, who at this point was dressed in his usual ensemble of dark pants, dark jacket, and button down shirt. The shirt was always some dramatic color. White, black, red, deep purple, and always fit him to within an inch of his life. Today it was white. The man must have some concept of how these clothes made him look. It was becoming a daily struggle to keep from ogling him openly. With a stiff nod, Sherlock led the way, descending the stairs with a swift grace, expecting as always that John would just keep up. It had in fact been this simple expectation from the taller, longer legged man that John would simply keep up with him that had jolted John out of his psychosomatic limp a few months ago. He’d run after Sherlock, down the streets of London, chasing an elusive killer in a taxi cab, heart pounding, feeling alive for the first time in a long time, never realizing he’d left his cane back at the restaurant. Such was the magic of Sherlock. 

___________________________________________

They made their way to Lestrade’s office, where Detective Inspector filled them in on this latest string of murders. Sherlock was swiftly able to work up a profile of the perpetrator from the description of the current victims (a forty year old office worker and a young woman who worked at a coffee shop, not far from where the first victim worked). According to Sherlock, the killer was likely a younger man, probably between twenty and thirty five, probably a white collar professional of some kind. Possible history of drug abuse. Likely the murders were financially motivated, but there was a chance that some sort of compulsion was involved. They talked for another few minutes before heading out to investigate the latest body site. 

John hung back as they entered the house now full of SOCOs and police officers and went down to the basement to find the sprawled body of a elderly woman, probably in her mid to late seventies. She lay on her back, head twisted at a sharp angle to the right. Her clothing was messed and rucked up in some places, indicating a possible struggle, and she had clearly twisted her left ankle, based on the swelling and redness in a ring above her left tennis shoe. Sherlock beckoned John over and softly asked John his opinion upon first seeing the body, and John reported all of his observations. 

Sherlock gave a pleased, terse little nod at hearing John’s deductions. John knew that he couldn’t supply one tenth of the insight that Sherlock could pick up in one tenth of the time, but Sherlock always looked quietly proud of John for what he was able to notice. This made John’s insides fizz up with butterfly wings every single time he saw Sherlock’s approving, proud smile. 

Then of course Sherlock would dive in and rattle off a series of multiple clues and deductions within the next thirty seconds that would leave everyone in the immediate vicinity with their mouths hanging open in awe. It was a sight John had eventually grown accustomed to, though he still found it thrilling to watch. He barely even noticed people’s reactions to Sherlock any longer. Mostly, he chose to keep his focus on the man himself. He’d also eventually stopped the shocked praise he’d felt fall out of his mouth whenever he’d first seen Sherlock at his work. Now, after being to fifteen or so crime scenes with the consulting detective, John knew the drill. Sherlock would tell the inspectors his deductions, they’d exhibit some mix of respect or anger or confusion at how he could  _ know _ so much in such a short period of time. How he could make half the people there seem irrelevant within mere seconds. Some people desired him. Some grew suspicious of him. Some outright hated him. But always, always they were surprised, shocked, impressed in some way shape or form. 

This time, the consulting detective deduced that the victim had likely allowed her murderer in under some sort of friendly pretense. The door was pristine and showed no signs of a struggle, nor did any of the windows show signs of forced entry, being that they were still locked up tight. The woman had been a retiree who’d held some low level position in a corporate business, probably in data entry or reception, based on the state of her fingers and wrists, from which Sherlock could deduce that she’d done a lot of typing. In addition she had an id badge she’d kept, leaning up against the frame of another photo in the sitting room upstairs, that portrayed herself, much younger. Meaning she’d worked there for quite a long time. 

She’d offered the killer a glass of water, which he’d wisely abstained from drinking, as an untouched glass of water sat on the coffee table, neatly centered on a coaster. Most people when home alone, drank tea or alcohol, or had a special glass from which they drank water all the time and washed regularly. This glass was brand new, still had a pristine sale sticker on the bottom that the woman had neglected to peel off. The water filled it almost to the brim and there were no signs of hands or lips on it, though the CSIs would still dust it for prints anyway. 

The killer had probably lured the woman into her finished basement under the pretense of looking at something of interest. An antique children’s game (some were stored on the shelves along one wall), an heirloom of some sort. Elderly people often loved to talk about their treasured possessions, especially to handsome, polite young men who seemed interested to hear about them. Once downstairs with her, he’d strangled her while wearing gloves. Gloves he’d probably put on while following her down the stairs, as they’d have seemed unusual or alarming had he worn them to the front door. He’d let her fall, and the force of her body hitting the ground had wrenched her neck to the side, post mortem, not as an attending police officer had guessed, that he’d snapped her neck as a way to kill her.

Nothing appeared to be missing from the woman’s house. According to the police officers on site, her jewelry was all still in her case upstairs and there was an untouched safe in her closet. The killer hadn’t even stolen her wallet, which had a ten pound note in it. This meant of course that the murder was not financially motivated. At least not on the surface.

Sherlock called up Lestrade and asked him to cross check the backgrounds of the current victims with the business where this woman had worked, saying he wouldn’t be surprised if there was some sort of connecting factor. Perhaps their killer also worked for this business (Crosswick and Sons accounting agency). He then slipped the phone into the pocket of his jacket and with a terse “come along John” he whirled and stalked his way back up the stairs and out onto the street. John, like usual, trotted after him. 

“So, these murders are connected?” He asked, rushing to catch up with Sherlock’s long legged stride as the man walked out to the corner to hail a cab. 

“Yes. And while I said this one wasn’t financially motivated, I’m now almost certain that the string of them are related to finances. Just not the finances of the victims. Perhaps a high level executive with something to hide, who needs to cover his tracks. We’ll have to wait and see what Lestrade comes up with by cross referencing the victims’ backgrounds.”

“I see.” John said, waiting beside Sherlock on the corner. “Where to now?” he asked. 

“We need to stop by St. Barts to talk to Molly,” Sherlock replied as a cab pulled up to their corner. “There’s something about the body that didn’t sit right with me."

John nodded and climbed into the back of the cab with Sherlock. He saw a unique opportunity to bring up the topic of his future perfect partner again, and after just a moment’s hesitation, he broached the subject. “So.. You really think Molly and I would make a good couple do you? Or was that just a joke as well?”

He watched Sherlock’s face carefully, and was pleased to see the detective flinch ever so slightly at the mention of their earlier conversation. Sherlock, being Sherlock of course, quickly recovered. “It wasn’t a joke. And why not? She’s a pleasant woman. Smart. Tolerant. She’d certainly put up with all your eccentricities. And you’re both of the same sexual orientation. If the way she moons after me is any indication, she seems to like men.” 

John took a deep breath. “What if I told you I also liked men?” he asked, proud that his voice stayed steady, while his insides twisted in a thrilling sort of apprehension. 

“I’d .. well John.. I’d have to tell you that I’m surprised.” Sherlock looked satisfyingly unsettled at this new piece of information. He kept his face turned out towards the street, but his voice betrayed a breathless quality that John had long ago identified as Sherlock Taken Aback. It was easy to miss if you didn’t know what to look for, but John had become very fluent in the detective’s non verbal cues. As one did when one spends an inordinate amount of time gazing at someone like a love sick puppy dog. 

“Yeah,” John replied casually. “I don’t date men nearly as often as I date women, but I’ve always liked them.” 

“That would explain some of your internet searches,” Sherlock replied, and John felt an epic blush light his cheeks on fire. 

That seemed to put a cap on the subject for the time being, and soon they pulled up outside of the hospital. Sherlock was uncharacteristically quiet on their way up in the lift. 

After they’d talked with Molly, who’d confirmed Sherlock’s suspicions that the elderly female victim’s time of death was likely longer ago than Sherlock had originally suspected based on the pooling of blood in her arms and legs, they’d headed back to the flat. 

John felt that he’d made some important headway by coming out to Sherlock. This way, he reasoned, the other man would know that there was at least the possibility that John was interested, rather than assuming John was a straight man who only dated women. It was a pathetic hope, a grasping at straws, but John didn’t regret telling Sherlock. At this point, he was growing sick of this devastating crush. He needed to get it out in the open somehow, needed to tell Sherlock somehow, but still lacked the courage to do so. 

_ Perhaps they’ve loved you for quite some time and haven’t found the courage to speak up about it. _

Sherlock’s words from that morning were still ringing in his head. Could Sherlock have been speaking of himself? He had to have been, hadn’t he? But the things Sherlock said often had double and triple meanings. Often, the man would say something that sounded cold and insensitive, and upon realizing how his statement had hurt John, he’d back track and explain it again, and it would magically transform into a loving sentiment. Sherlock simply had a strange way of expressing himself. He had feelings. Deep ones. John had seen him cry. Seen him in anguish. Seen him consumed by guilt and anger. He’d seen affection bloom on the man’s pale, beautiful face many times, and that affection had often been aimed in John’s direction. Despite the fact that Donovan called him “freak” and that many people misunderstood him as a cold robotic sociopath, John and Mrs. Hudson and Molly and Lestrade knew the truth. That Sherlock was a man of hidden depths and deep caring. 

It was this warmth, hidden beneath the icy surface of Sherlock’s stunning features and cold demeanor that drew John inexorably closer to the infuriating detective. He supposed it was all part of why he loved Sherlock. The push and pull. The hot and cold. The mystery of the man. It was enough to keep John fascinated and thrilled to the core for the rest of his days. He hoped fervently however that they’d be able to address John’s feelings sometime, sooner than later. The thought of continuing their friendship with an unrequited love resting heavily between them was a painful one. 

“Tea?” Sherlock’s baritone cut through John’s musings and snapped him back to the present moment. 

“Mm? Yes please,” he replied as Sherlock set down a mug in front of him and poured tea into it from the kettle. “Thank you,” John mumbled. 

Sherlock sat opposite him and opened his laptop. Soon his fingers were flying over the keys, no doubt executing several searches on information pertinent to their current case. John needed to get to his office downtown for an afternoon shift, but he procrastinated, not wanting to leave Sherlock’s presence just yet. The money Sherlock earned from solving cases went to covering a lot of their bills, but though Sherlock insisted that a portion of that money (not a small portion either) went to John, due to his assistance, John still wanted and needed to work. They still needed the money, and he needed to keep his medical skills honed. He also needed to get out of the flat, in order to do things that didn’t involve a tall, lanky, obnoxious detective that he could not stop picturing naked. 

“Don’t you have a shift due to start at the office soon?” Sherlock, always keenly aware of everything to do with John’s schedule and, increasingly irritatingly, John’s social life, spoke as if it were his duty to remind John of his responsibilities. 

“Yeah,” John replied, toying with his mug. “But I can show up any time between three and four. I admit to dawdling a little.”   
  


“You’re still staring at me when you think I won’t notice,” Sherlock said, casual as you please, and John’s heart stilled in his chest for a split second. He mentally kicked himself, because he hadn’t even noticed that he’d been looking. He was slipping badly. 

“I think it’s time I headed out,” he said, voice gruff with embarrassment as he rose from his chair and started for the door.

“A moment please,” Sherlock spoke as he also rose and stepped to block John’s path to the stairs. “I need to check something first.”

John stopped in his tracks, blinking in confusion as Sherlock stepped closer to him. “Check what?” he asked, his stomach instantly filling with flutters at the detective’s proximity. 

“Just be quiet a moment and stand still if you would,” Sherlock commanded softly, then stepped up quite close to John indeed. He stood only inches away from John, deep in John’s personal space, looking down into John’s eyes with a steady blue gaze that made the shorter man’s heartbeat kick into high gear. He expected Sherlock to say or do something, but the other man just stood there, radiating heat and a tight, coiled energy that made strong chemical reactions start pinging back and forth inside John’s body. John felt himself grow hot, felt his breath come faster. He knew his face must have been a sight. Eyes wide and dilated, chest suddenly heaving gently, cheeks flushed with heat. Sherlock continued simply standing there, close enough to touch. Close enough to reach out and pull into John’s arms. And oh how John’s hands itched to do so, to grip that long, ivory neck and pull those soft lips down towards his own. If Sherlock didn’t move soon, didn’t do something to break this tension building inside John’s body, he would likely lose control and try to do just that. Which would likely be disastrous, not to mention unwelcome.

But luckily, with a long, slow breath out through his nose, a breath that crashed deliciously against John’s face, Sherlock stepped back and turned away. “Thank you John. That was most informative,” he said, voice stiff and deep. He went back to his laptop and started typing away again as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t just had John seconds away from lunging at him. 

“Wha- what was that all about?” John stammered, struggling to get his body back to it’s baseline settings while his heart still pounded in his ears.

“It was nothing John. Just testing a theory I have. Better get down to the office. Don’t want to be late for….” and here he paused for several beats before saying “...work”.

John knew this pause well, and the resultant glimmer in Sherlock’s eyes as his face transformed itself into a mask of surprise. His brain had supplied him with a key to solving the case. 

“Work! Yes. that’s it!” He exclaimed, looking up at John with a broad smile on his face. 

“Whatever do you mean Sherlock?” John asked, a little warily, striving to keep up with the sudden change in topic. He didn’t like the way Sherlock was looking at him. It was the look he normally got before Sherlock asked him to do something ridiculous, and he was not to be disappointed. 

“We need a man on the inside John. You need to go to work at Crosswick and Sons!”

“What?! Why would I do that?” 

“Why to find out what’s going on there of course. Don’t be dense John. If we go there together as consulting detectives, it will spook the CEO or the CFO or the general manager or whomever this murderer likely is, into pulling back or changing his plans. But… if a new temp were to start there, especially a mild mannered, unassuming man such as yourself, it wouldn’t raise any concerns at all.”

John, chose to ignore Sherlock’s uninspired description of him as  _ mild mannered _ and  _ unassuming _ . “Why can’t you go?” he asked, then, seeing the wryly sarcastic roll of Sherlock’s eyes, he answered his own question. “Of course. It can’t be you. Everyone would hate you inside of five minutes. You don’t exactly  _ blend in _ well in an office environment do you?” 

“No,” Sherlock replied, tacitly agreeing with John and not taking his last statement as an insult, more a mere fact. “I don’t. But you John, with your average looks and friendly demeanor will fit in just fine.”

“Average looks huh?” John tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice, but must have failed spectacularly, for Sherlock’s head whipped up to look at him and assess his facial expression, the way he often did when he realized suddenly that he’d made a social faux pas.

“Oh John, don’t misunderstand me.” he rumbled in his deep baritone, his voice warming somewhat from the clinical description of a moment ago “I personally happen to find your looks quite stunning. It’s the general public who will, upon first glance, perceive you as average. Or rather, average enough to fit in with the rest of the pencil pushers.”

John was surprised and warmed enough by the compliment to ignore the fact that it was somewhat back handed. “Thank you,” he mumbled. Then he paused to think for a minute. “I suppose it could work” he said cautiously. “I could get the lay of the office political landscape and do a little bit of snooping, under the guise of being brand new and not knowing how things work.”

“Now you’re catching on!” Sherlock beamed at him again before looking back down at his keyboard. “I’ve taken the liberty of pulling up an application for you and I can fill it out while you’re at work. You’ll have to take the day off from seeing patients tomorrow and head to Crosswick and Sons.”

“I suppose I haven’t taken a day off for a while” John mused. 

“No. It’s been precisely eighty seven days since you’ve taken a weekday off John. You’re entitled to a break.”

“Yeah. I can’t wait to spend my day off infiltrating the office of a suspected murderer while doing temp work. Quite relaxing.”

“Glad you’re on board John. I think this will bring us some valuable insight.” Sherlock hadn’t looked back up from his laptop and so John grabbed his coat and briefcase and headed to work. 


	3. Chapter 3

Despite it being a busy day, with several appointments lined up for John, his mind kept creeping back to the moment when Sherlock had stood near him in the kitchen. The memory of it alone was enough to make John’s heart race and distract him completely from what he was doing for a few moments. _ Dear lord _ did that man have any idea what his closeness did to John? And what was he on about? _ Testing a theory _. 

The only theory Sherlock could possibly test by standing that close to John was how John’s body reacted to the other man’s proximity… 

John’s hand froze midway through writing out a prescription. _ Oh no. oh no no no no. _ He _ wouldn’t _ have. _ He couldn’t have _ could he? John felt all the blood drain from his face and felt his hands start to shake with the realization that his suspicions could quite possibly be true. Sherlock was just enough of a clinical, methodical bastard to conduct an experiment to see if John was sexually attracted to him. That kind of dirty trick was right up Sherlock’s alley. 

How had John been so stupid? How had he let himself keep sneaking glances at Sherlock, even after knowing the man had noticed it? How had he been dumb enough to assume that the smartest man in several countries wouldn’t somehow find out that he was harboring feelings? _ Oh. No _. 

What was John to do now? He told himself to calm down, forced his hand to continue writing out the prescription and walk out of his office to greet his next patient. He couldn’t simply sit there, panicking about Sherlock for the rest of the day. He reassured himself somewhat with the fact that Sherlock had made no indication that he knew John felt the way he did. He hadn’t brought the subject up. Hadn’t taken the opportunity to reject John again. J_esus Christ, _ John could just imagine what that would sound like.

_ John, due to your elevated heart rate and respiration when I’m near you, and the fact that you keep looking at me like a besotted fool, I am forced to come to the conclusion that you love me and want to shag me. Please pack your things and move out at once. I can’t be distracted by your mooning. _

Or perhaps 

_ John, It’s come to my attention through extensive testing and research that you have an unrelenting hard-on for me. I’m flattered, but also quite disgusted. Please keep it in your pants so that we can focus on our work, or I shall be forced to move out. _

Despite his self recrimination to focus on work, John still spent far too much of the remainder of his shift imagining several more unpleasant, humiliating situations in which Sherlock rejected him in any number of cold, dismissive ways. By the time he clocked out at half past nine, he was in a state, his stomach in knots, his head full of paranoid ideations about what Sherlock must think of him. 

He slunk back into the flat, purposefully trying to avoid Sherlock, who of course was lounging in his armchair, laptop still open in the sitting room when John entered. He went immediately to his room without looking twice at his flatmate and shut the door, then threw himself onto the bed and buried his face in his pillow, letting out a low groan of frustration. This was a nightmare. This pretending. This hiding. Perhaps he should just face the music and come out and tell Sherlock everything? It had to be easier than living in fear that Sherlock would find out by accident, through some verbal slip up of John’s. 

Or god forbid, John would one day be unable to control himself and would reach for Sherlock, would try to kiss him, or wrap his arms around the tall, lanky detective, only to be pushed away in disgust. John definitely knew he consciously did not want to violate Sherlock’s consent, or push past the other man’s boundaries, but he knew also that the human body had some pretty strong, knee jerk reactions. If Sherlock got that close to him again, like that stunt he’d pulled in the kitchen that afternoon, John could not promise himself he’d be able to resist touching the other man in a way that loudly betrayed his feelings. 

And of course, if John’s hunch were correct, Sherlock likely already knew how John felt. He’d ferreted out John’s desire for him merely by taking note of John’s bodily reactions. What was the point of keeping up this charade? 

A soft knock on the door shook John out of his anguished reverie. “John?” Sherlock’s deep voice on the other side of the door made John’s insides clench with anxiety. But he got up and opened the door a crack, enough to see a pale sliver of the other man’s face on the other side. 

“Yeah Sherlock? What is it?” he didn’t mean to sound so cranky, but he had to cover for his panic somehow. 

“Nothing much John, only I finished and submitted your resume to the temp agency who’s referring you to Crosswick and Sons this afternoon. They want you to start tomorrow.”

“That was quick.” John’s surprise cut momentarily through his worry. 

“Well, I made you sound fantastic,” Sherlock admitted, the one eye that was visible to John through the crack in the door crinkling with mischief. 

“Alright then, let's discuss my plan tomorrow morning.”

“Can’t we talk tonight?” Sherlock’s tone had grown petulant, like it often did when he wanted something John was loath to give him. “I have a lot of information for you to memorize.”

“Sherlock. I’m tired. It’s been a long day”

“You’re not tired John. When you’re tired, you stomp your way up the stairs and complain a lot and pinch the top of your nose. You’ve done none of those things tonight. I barely even heard you come in. So come out and discuss tomorrow’s plan. You want to be convincing don’t you?” The blue eye looking at him through the crack had turned steely and John knew it was pointless to argue. 

He sighed. “Fine. Give me a few minutes. I’ll be out soon.'' He caught Sherlock’s smile for a split second before shutting the door and going to get on his pajama bottoms and a cotton shirt. If he had to stay up late and possibly deal with a beyond-awkward social situation, he’d better be comfortable while he did it. 

Soon he padded barefoot back to the living room and sat in his chair, across from Sherlock, keeping his eyes trained somewhere on a spot over Sherlock’s left shoulder. “What do I need to know?” he asked.

“Well to start, you need to know that you’ll be doing a simple data entry job. You’ll be putting numbers into an excel spreadsheet for most of your day. Also, you’ll only need to be there one day. We can’t have you working there for the rest of the week or for an extended period because it won’t take all that long for someone to recognize you from the news stories about us. But one shift, one day should be a sufficient amount of time for you to do a bit of snooping without drawing attention.”

“Simple data entry task. One day. Got it. Doesn’t sound all that difficult.” 

“Yes, I’ve done some research on the company and I’ve had a chat with Lestrade about the other victims. It seems there is a new general manager that started two months before the killings did. He’s likely to be connected. The first victim was a data entry person, which is one of the reasons the temp agency sent you to that location so immediately. They’re short a man. The second victim worked at a coffee shop directly downstairs. They’re clearly related somehow.” Sherlock stretched his long limbs, his sinewy forearms showing above rolled up sleeves, and John swiftly looked down at his hands.

“The third victim, the elderly woman from earlier today, retired from the company over a year ago.” 

“Also,” he continued, “you’ll need to find your way into the boss’s office and look around, and that will prove to be a bit more of a problem.”

“How am I supposed to do that?” John was starting to feel a little apprehensive. 

“Well, the boss lunches around two o'clock with some colleagues, one of whom he’s having an affair with, who loves to post food pictures from their luncheons on Facebook. The photos always go up between two twenty and two twenty five, meaning that they likely leave the office at two, head to their favorite restaurant, which is only a block from the office, and their food gets brought to the table around fifteen minutes later. Lots of posh salads and so forth that this colleague seems to think deserve to be shared with four hundred and fifty two of her friends”

John nodded. “Fine. But won’t someone notice me walking around the boss’s office?”

“No,” remarked Sherlock with a pleased tone to his voice that told John he felt quite clever. “No one will notice because tomorrow is the company’s monthly birthday celebration. Everyone leaves their desks and heads to a conference room to sing badly and eat cheap cake for ten minutes. You’ll have plenty of time to get in, have a look around and get back out.”

“Fine. I’m sure you have some extremely tricky way that you were able to find that out, but I don’t think I have the energy to hear about it now.” 

“It was simple really. People say a lot about their coworkers and their office schedules on Facebook. Quite stupid of them really, considering how many workplace shootings there’ve been in the past few years.” 

“How did I get this job without an interview?” John asked, carefully keeping his eyes away from Sherlock’s lean legs and socked feet that were splayed out in front of him in all their lanky splendor.

“Well, I shopped around for any temp agency that looked shoddy enough to hire someone sight unseen, then I hacked into their computer system and put your name front of the line for the new job. It was simple. Their firewalls are a joke and their computer systems are a mess. Took me seven point three minutes. And I trumped up your resume to the perfect point. Just efficient and trustworthy enough to fit the bill, but not so experienced that you’d come off overqualified”

“You scare me sometimes Sherlock,” John said, his eyebrows creeping up to his hairline, impressed despite himself. 

“John, I routinely solve high profile murder cases from every possible corner of this city with nothing but my brain and a laptop. And well, of course, with help from good friends like you.”

“Right. Yes. I suppose a temp agency’s staffing file wasn’t such a big deal,” John mumbled, suitably chastised, and now blushing furiously at yet another compliment. “So do I have a pseudonym?”

“You do.”

“And it is.. What? Herbert Goldenshaffer? Boris Battendorf? Benedict Cumberbatch? Something ridiculous and hard to remember I’m sure.”

“John Taylor,” Sherlock replied with a quirk of an eyebrow and a small tug at the corner of his mouth that John recognized as signs of amusement. 

“Well then, simple enough” He replied. “What else?”

They spent the next hour or so going over the blueprints of the office and the things that John was to look for. Paperwork that didn’t belong. Signs of mafia connections. Signs of embezzlement. Anything that would connect the new supervisor or anyone else in the office to the victims. 

Eventually, the conversation slowed and John stood and stretched. “I think it’s high time I got to bed,” he said through the tail end of yawn. 

Sherlock rose with him, but when John turned to leave, the other man stepped up close again and grasped him gently by the shoulder, turning him to face Sherlock. Sherlock’s features were somewhat shadowed because his back was to the lamp by his chair, but John could see a tender expression on his face that took John’s breath away. 

“Sherlock.. What?” _ Oh no, he’s doing it again. Standing close to me to see how it tears me up inside _. 

“John,” Sherlock said, his voice rumbling in a register so low that John actually felt it vibrate in the air between them “I just wanted to say, be careful in there tomorrow.” And then he reached out with an elegant hand and placed it softly and gently against John’s cheek. It took every ounce of John’s strength not to lean into that hand and let his eyes flutter closed. Instead, he kept his eyes open and fixed on Sherlock’s and stood stock still. 

“Yeah. Yeah. Of course. Nothing to worry about” He stammered, then pulled away and fled to his bedroom without looking back. 

He swiftly got into bed and lay there, heart pounding, letting his body heat warm up the cool sheets, praying that his mind would still, that the feel of Sherlock’s hand on his cheek would stop burning his skin as if the man’s hand had been on fire. _ Why? Why must he do this to me? _ He realized with a rush of pointless embarrassment that he was rock hard under his pajama bottoms. Of course he was. It’s not every day that the man you live with and yearn for who rarely touches you affectionately comes out and lays a hand on your cheek like some lovestruck heroine from a period piece romance novel whose husband is headed off to war. 

He squeezed his eyes shut and willed his erection to go away. Yes, he’d masturbated while thinking about Sherlock before, but it had always been glimmers. He’d doggedly worked at replacing images of Sherlock with other, safer, more female spank bank entries from recent weeks. The young woman in the tight jeans who’d bent over in front of him on the bus to pick up a pound note she’d dropped. The full breasts of the waitress, straining against the buttons of her polyester uniform at the cafe where he and Sherlock had eaten last month. Little, sexy images he’d gathered over the course of his day that resurfaced when he was alone and pleasuring himself.

Flashes of Sherlock’s eyes and mouth and hands had always tried to insert themselves into his fantasies, and aside from a few brief moments spent indulging them, John always resolutely pushed the images away. He knew that that way lay madness. If he got into the habit of wanking to thoughts of Sherlock, he was well and truly done for. 

But tonight, tonight, it seemed impossible not to conjure up images of the tall, ivory skinned man with the dark tousled curls. John was tired of holding back. He’d been holding back in regards to his flatmate for months at this point, ever since he’d recognized the familiar clenching in his heart and breathless tingles up and down his spine that meant what it always meant, that he’d fallen in love. 

And so he pushed the covers and his pants down around his upper thighs and reached down to grasp himself in his fist, as he let his mind wander to Sherlock’s face and body without restraint. He let himself picture kissing Sherlock, tasting the other man’s soft, wet mouth, letting his hands roam over the smooth, alabaster skin of Sherlock’s long torso and flat stomach, of letting his hands grip in that dark hair that always looked so silky and inviting. He worked himself with his fist and pictured that it was Sherlock’s long fingered hand pulling at him, Sherlock’s baritone voice whispering words of encouragement in his ear. He came far quicker than usual, and the orgasm hit him like a punch to the gut that left him gasping for air and struggling not to cry out at the force of it. 

Afterwards, he lay panting and loose in the mess he’d made, head reeling and body tingling. _ Jesus Christ, that was good _. He thought blearily. Eventually, when he could move his arms and legs again, he got up carefully and cleaned himself up with a wad of tissues, then pulled his pajama bottoms back up and settled back into bed. His last thought before drifting off to sleep was 

_ I’ll tell him tomorrow. After I come back from Crosswick and Sons. I’ll tell him tomorrow. I have to.. _


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning, he could barely look at Sherlock over their tea. They went over the details of their plan one more time, and he could feel Sherlock looking quizzically at him over the rim of his cup, gauging what was wrong with his flatmate this morning. John didn’t care. He only had an eight hour shift at an accounting firm between now and finally telling Sherlock how he felt, and he could be as dodgy and suspicious as he wanted. Hiding his feelings was so normal at this point that he was starting to grow accustomed to the anxiety that came along with it. The way one grows accustomed to the twinge of an old wound. It doesn’t count as pain any longer because it weaves its way into the fabric of one’s life. That was how the pining and resulting anxiety over his love for Sherlock had become. An old habit. 

Soon, it was eight o’clock and time for John to head out for Crosswick and Sons. He wished Sherlock a brusque goodbye and headed out the door, ignoring Sherlock’s wide eyed look at John’s short behavior. 

It was a quick trip via tube station to the office building. John walked in and took the lift to the fifth floor where Crosswick and Son’s had their offices. He signed in at the front desk and received a warm welcome from a rather cute receptionist who gave him an id badge and told him to go into an office two doors down in a hallway to the left. John next met with Catherine, the assistant manager, who got him set up in a cubicle and signed on to a computer. She spent perhaps an hour sitting with him, going over the spreadsheets he’d be using and where to transfer the numerical data from and how to save it in which location. It was simple work, just as Sherlock had said. Clerical temp work. Simple enough that John could do it while simultaneously keeping his wits about him and looking around for clues. 

The office seemed like a normal one. Silly inspirational posters hung on grey cubicle walls. People’s pictures of loved ones and little knick knacks festooned the tops of the cubicles. Phones rang persistently in the distance, and everywhere was the click clack of fingers flying across keyboards. All normal. 

After an hour of data entry, when John figured he’d earned himself a break to head to the loo, he got up and wandered around a bit. He made sure not to look too confused so no one would step up to ask him if he needed help, but not sure enough of himself that he didn’t have plausible deniability if he ended up somewhere he shouldn’t have been. Several people gave him curious looks, but then their eyes slid easily back to their work. Sherlock had been right. John was average looking. In a way very well suited to undercover work. Unbidden, Sherlock’s words from the day before echoed through his mind

_ I personally happen to find your looks quite stunning. _

John pushed the memory of Sherlock’s voice calling him _ stunning _ out of his mind and focused in again on his surroundings. He was standing near the new supervisor’s office door now. He could see the man through the wall of glass that comprised the front window his office, pale and worried looking and speaking intently into his office phone. _ This bloke has murderer written all over him, _ he thought. Of course, it was ridiculous to suspect someone of murder based on the way they spoke on the phone, but there was an air of desperation about the man’s movements, a tightness to his features that spoke of a stress that went beyond the corporate world. 

John ducked around a corner and into the men’s loo and fished his phone out of his jacket pocket. 

_ Boss looks stressed _, he texted Sherlock. The reply came back almost instantly. Sherlock’s texting abilities bordered on supernatural.

_ Good. try and keep an eye on him - SH _

John did his business, washed his hands and took a slow walk back to his desk, letting his eyes sweep across the cubicles of the other office workers as he went. Nothing looked particularly out of place, so he returned to his desk for another couple of hours of data entry, trying not to let his mind wander too much to what lay ahead of him when his undercover office shift ended that evening. 

He knew he’d promised himself that he’d tell Sherlock how he felt upon returning to the flat tonight, but now, in the harsh light of day, when he hadn’t been laying in post orgasmic bliss in his bed at night, it seemed rash and ill advised. What could come of it? Sherlock would most likely recoil from the notion of being romantically involved with him. The sharp, cynical detective probably loathed romantic niceties. He certainly gave the impression that he did. And he most likely had no interest in sex either. It certainly would have helped John feel a little better if he’d seen _ some _indication that Sherlock thought about sex at all over the course of the couple of years they’d lived together. A browser tab left open to a porn sight. Used tissues. Something!

He silently admonished himself for letting his thoughts drift to Sherlock masturbating and forced himself to focus in on the spreadsheet on the computer screen in front of him. Yes. He couldn’t function properly and keep these feelings a secret any longer. He had to speak up.

“Hello there!” piped a cheerful voice, shaking him out of his reverie, and John looked up to see a plump, smiling face looking down at him from the top of his cubicle wall. “My name’s Beatrice! What’s yours?” The face belonged to a kindly looking young woman in her late twenties or early thirties. She was wearing the type of gently outdated office wear that told John she wasn’t a fashion mavin, and her overly bright and friendly tone told him she was likely the office busibody. He supposed living with Sherlock for two years did have a few advantages. He was a better judge of character based on visual cues than he’d ever been before moving in with the other man. Here, he saw a golden opportunity to garner more information. 

“Well, hello there Beatrice!” he exclaimed brightly. “My name’s John. John Taylor. I’m new here.” 

“I know.” Beatrice grinned and reached her hand down over the top of the cubicle wall to briefly clasp John’s in greeting. She disappeared for a second and then came around to the door of John’s cubicle to stand by his desk. “I always like to say hello to new folks and help them feel welcome,” she said brightly, smiling, hands on her hips. 

“Thank you. I appreciate that.” John leaned back a little in his chair and gave her his warmest smile. Women tended to like him, and he was relying on that fact to get some information out of Beatrice. It worked like a charm. She blushed a little bit and her smile grew larger in response. “So what’s it like around here? Is the boss nice?”

“Oh, it’s fine. Not bad. Sometimes a bit boring. The boss is usually pretty nice.. Lately though, what with the murders, he’s been a bit tense”.

“Ah,” Replied John, internally joyful over having Beatrice bring the conversation right where he wanted it so quickly. “I’d read about that in the papers. I was sorry to hear about that horrid business with your data entry person.”

“Yeah. Harold was really quiet and kept to himself. No one really knew him. Still, it’s tragic that he’s been murdered.” Beatrice had the decency to lower her voice to a stage whisper during this exchange, but John could tell that she had a gossip’s desire to spread news, regardless of how horrible it sounded. In fact, like most unrepentant gossips, the more horrible the news, the more fun it was to relay it to someone else. He’d struck gold. 

“How has your boss.. Mr. Bolding, how has he taken the news?” John asked, affecting a casual manner, as if news of the supervisor wasn’t the entire reason he was there today. 

“He seems strained actually,” Beatrice opined. “He’s been under a lot of stress lately, shouting at people. Staying in the office really late. It’s hard to tell if Harold’s murder got to him or not honestly. I’m sure it didn’t make his stress any better.”

“Why’s he stressed?” John asked, toying with a pen and swiveling a bit in his office chair in an admirable show of not being that interested in the response. 

“Not sure,” Beatrice said, rolling her eyes skyward as if casting her memory back. “Probably some sort of financial issue with the company. He doesn’t talk to us about that stuff. You know.. We’re just office grunts haha!”

“Yeh. I could see that.” John figured he’d gotten enough information from Beatrice so he gently reminded her that he had to get back to work and extended his hand to shake hers again as a way to ease the transition from conversation back to spreadsheet. She left, back to her own cubicle with a flirty smile. 

_ That went well _ John thought with pride. This was turning out to be an easier job than he’d thought. Before he knew it, it was ten minutes to two. He locked his computer screen and got up again, wandering to the loo and casting a sideways glance at the boss’s office. The man had stood and was getting his coat on to head out to their favorite restaurant, just as Sherlock had foretold. Everyone else was preparing to head to the work cafeteria for the birthday celebration, and so John hid in a stall in the loo so he’d wouldn’t be pulled along by some conscientious coworker. At two minutes after, he dared to poke his head back out of the loo and saw that the office was deserted.

He made his way swiftly to Mr. Bolding’s office. The door was left ajar, and John wasn’t sure if this was usual for the man or if his recent stress had him forget to shut his office. Either way, John slipped in and had a look around. It felt highly uncomfortable, trespassing like this, but he reassured himself that the man would be busy for the next hour. 

He ran a quick glance over the man’s desk and saw nothing out of the ordinary. A picture of him and his wife (no kids) sat on the corner of his desk. She was pretty and stiff looking in a floral print dress and he in a suit, his hair slicked back with gel. At a wedding? There were papers strewn across the desk, and they all looked to John’s relatively unpracticed eyes to do with accounting. A quick look at the shelves showed books on accounting, a biography of Winston Churchill and a collection of Avengers figurines. 

Just a normal office. Just a normal man. He was about to leave when something struck his eye down by the floor. It was the corner of a tiny, plastic bag. John swiftly squatted down and using a pair of tweezers that Sherlock had insisted he bring with him, he pulled the small bag out from where it had been trapped under a leg of Mr. Bolding’s desk. John had seen these bags many times, littering the streets in the worst parts of town. A heroin bag. 

_ Ah ha! _ He thought. He took out his phone and took a picture of the bag, and then carefully lifted a corner of Mr. Bolding’s desk and put it back where it had been. 

He stood up and his heart stopped in his chest at the sight of Mr. Bolding himself, standing in the doorway. _ Oh shit oh shit ohshitohshitohsit. _

“Excuse me. What the hell do you think you’re doing?" Bolding said through clenched teeth. His skin was pale and there were dark circles under his eyes. A sheen of sweat had broken out at his hairline. John’s mind raced to find a believable excuse. 

“Oh.. um.. Hi.. um.. One of the other data entry people told me it was OK to come in here and get a copy of the code key,” he lied swiftly. 

“And who exactly told you that?” Mr. Bolding was clearly not buying it. 

“Oh… some chap. I’m sorry but I must have forgotten his name.” John was also sweating now, a trickle of sweat dripping uncomfortably down his back and pooling at the waistline of his boxer shorts. “I’m sorry if it wasn’t OK. I’ll just be on my way.”

To his complete and utter relief, Mr. Bolding stood by and let him leave. John hoped he wouldn’t smell the flop sweat reek coming off of him in waves over being caught snooping. He made his way swiftly back to his desk and calmed himself with several deep breaths before starting back in on the spreadsheet. His nerves were a mess. 

The next hour went by without incident as he worked on the spreadsheet to cover for his slip up. He texted Sherlock the picture of the heroin baggy and a description of what had happened. 

_ Get out now - SH _ came Sherlock’s immediate reply

_ It’s only half past three _ John replied. 

_ Doesn’t matter. Just get up and leave. That man has likely killed three people and he’s on edge. I can’t have you risking your safety there any longer John. - SH _

John felt a warm glow spreading in his chest at Sherlock’s protective words. Fine then. He might as well leave. He grabbed his coat and stood up, casting a glance at the boss’s office. Mr. Bolding could not be seen. John swiftly walked out of the room and down the hall to reception. “Leaving already?” asked the cute receptionist. 

“Not feeling well,” John replied, heading towards the lift. He was at first surprised when the lift doors opened onto the main lobby and his exit was blocked by a very pale and intent looking Mr. Bolding. The man crowded John back into the lift, and John could see the dark barrel of a gun, hidden in the man’s coat and pointed at John’s stomach. _ Oh fuck. _

“You’re not leaving just yet,” Mr. Bolding said through gritted teeth. They were the only two people in the lift. John could see someone, a woman with a briefcase trying to hurry to catch the doors, but Mr. Bolding swiftly hit the door-close button and then the button for the parking garage in the basement. 

“Thought you’d go snooping in my office did you?” Bolding growled at John, keeping the gun low and half hidden while glaring at John with dark, desperate eyes in a white, sweaty face. “We’ll see how that works out for you shall we?”

John’s stomach was in knots and his mouth had gone dry. _ This man means to kill me _ , he thought in a panic. _ Fuck. this isn’t good. _

He palmed his cell phone in his pocket and opened it up by feel. He then tapped spastically at the screen and hit what he hoped was the send button on the bottom right edge of the screen. He knew It was a slim chance that he’d actually been able to send a text, garbled and nonsensical as it would be to Sherlock, but the two of them had been texting non stop for two years. John knew he had a chance of hitting the right buttons on the touch screen of his phone, even if he couldn’t see them. That was his only and last hope. That Sherlock would receive the nonsense text and know that something was wrong. Otherwise, he was pretty sure he was done for. 

“What are you talking about? Why do you have a gun?” He played dumb, not that it would do any good at this point. 

“Don’t waste your time pretending to be innocent. I saw you poking about on the floor by my desk. That’s not where I keep the code key papers and you know it.” The other man’s voice was gruff with quiet rage and John swallowed thickly. _ He’s not buying it. _

The lift dinged as it reached the basement and the doors opened. Unluckily, no one was in the car park at this time of afternoon, and Mr. Bolding indicated with his gun that John was to exit the lift. He walked behind John, the barrel of the gun pressed into John’s lower back, one of his hands on John’s upper arm, steering him towards a black BMW parked nearby. “Get in and put your safety belt on,” Mr. Bolding said, and John opened the passenger side door and got in. Once he was buckled in, he saw Bolding pull back the hand with the gun and felt an explosion of pain at his temple and the world went black. 


	5. Chapter 5

John woke to pain. His head was pounding and his wrists hurt. This turned out to be because they were tied behind his back. He was lying on his side on a carpet somewhere with hands and ankles bound. It was dark. He could hear noises nearby. Shuffling and banging coming from another room. He dared open his eyes and sent up a brief prayer of thanks that it was dark where he was, otherwise his eyes would have burned from the light and the injury to the side of his head. 

_ Mr. Bolding _

John suddenly remembered the man pulling back to hit him, the cold, metal glint of the gun in his fist as he drew back and struck John unconscious. He groaned in pain and tried to concentrate past the frozen lump of dread swiftly developing in the pit of his stomach. This wasn’t good. He was bound, wounded and alone, with an enraged, hopped up murderer in the next room. 

John had no idea why he was still alive, but then he tried to move and heard the crinkle of a plastic tarp under him and felt his blood freeze in his veins. He was only still alive because Mr. Bolding hadn’t finished preparing to kill him yet. The tarp was clearly meant to catch the blood from whichever way Bolding planned on doing him in. Probably by knife point, as a gunshot would alert anyone in the area to his location. John felt himself start to panic, but quickly quelled his fear with a few deep breaths and a stern admonishment to himself to keep his head clear. Panicking wouldn’t do anything but hasten his demise. 

He quickly took stock of his surroundings, swiveling his eyes around as much as he could while not moving overly much to alert the man in the next room that he was awake. He was in a mostly empty, carpeted room, in a house or a flat, it was hard to tell. He could just make out the dark blue tarp beneath him and the embroidered edge of what might have been the bottom of a sofa or a large armchair in the dim light coming from the crack under the door. 

He could not see his jacket, which had his cell phone in the pocket, but the murderer would be dim witted indeed to let John keep his cell phone. It was likely in Bolding’s possession, or.. If he were smart, destroyed so as not to be used to track John. John prayed that his garbled text had made it out to Sherlock. Sherlock would instantly know something was wrong and go in search of John, and that was John’s only hope at this point. 

He was shaken out of his worries by the door opening and a pair of dark shoes walking in. John, lying on his side, unable to look up couldn’t see the man’s face. “Mr. Bolding!” he yelled, wincing at the pain that bloomed behind his left temple as he did so, but knowing that at this point, keeping the man talking was the only chance he had. “Mr. Bolding! Killing me is not a good idea. Do you have any idea who I am?”

“I don’t care who you are,” Mr. Bolding mumbled. His voice sounded slurred and John wondered if part of murdering him involved Mr. Bolding getting high first, perhaps to numb himself to his actions. 

“You should Mr. Bolding. You _ should _ care who I am. I’m John Watson. Sound familiar?” John knew he could simply tell the man who he was, but that would take less time and sound less mysterious, and sounding mysterious.. giving the unhinged man something to think about would earn John precious seconds or minutes to come up with a better plan. 

“Am I supposed to know who that is?” Mr. Bolding’s voice was dull and unfeeling and John felt his insides clench in fear. 

“You should. I’m the partner of Sherlock Holmes. The famous detective from the news. You know the one. He solved all those murders. He’s a genius, and I’m.. I’m his best friend and business partner.”

Mr. Bolding, who had been doing something in the corner of the room that involved the laying out of several heavy objects on a flat surface out of John’s line of sight, stilled his movements for a moment. John pressed his advantage. “He’s unstoppable Mr. Bolding. He’ll solve my murder in five seconds and bring the police directly to you, and he’s.. well.. he’s a violent man Mr. Bolding, a bit of a sociopath really. There’s a very good chance he’ll side step telling the police and come after you himself.” 

He realized as he said this that it probably wasn’t too far from the truth. Whether or not Sherlock loved John in the same hopelessly ardent way John loved him, the tall, ice eyed detective was deeply devoted to their friendship. He’d shown John in a hundred ways over their time working and living together that he would literally take a bullet to protect John. Despite the dire circumstances, John felt a warmth spreading in his chest at knowing that Sherlock would stop at nothing to find John. He only prayed it wouldn’t be too late.

His words seemed to have the desired effect on his captor. Bolding had abandoned what he was doing and walked over to where John lay. He crouched down and grabbed John by the hair and twisted his head painfully up so that he could look him in the face. In the dim light of the room, Bolding’s face was a pale oval with dark shadows for eyes. He looked haunted. John swallowed hard. 

“If you’re right and you are who you claim to be, what’s to keep you from going to the police the minute I let you go?”

“Oh I don’t expect you to trust me Mr. Bolding, but I have access to quite a bit of money, and I’d be quite happy to buy my freedom. I can give you a headstart so you can flee the country. I’ll tell you my account information and give you my bank card and you can leave me tied up here and make a break for it. Even if I do tell the police, you could be three countries away from here inside of five hours, and I’m sure it will take longer than that for anyone to find me.” 

He was lying of course. If Sherlock did happen to receive John’s text, it could take the detective less than an hour to somehow work out John’s location, but Bolding was clearly not very familiar with the famous detective Holmes. He might buy it. 

“Sounds like a tempting plan,” replied the other man, his voice low and rough “but honestly, I’d rather slit your throat and bury your body in a deep grave in the woods behind my house.” 

John’s heart started hammering as Bolding got up out of his squat and went back to what he’d been doing before their conversation. There were more shuffling noises from the other side of the room, behind John. He was certain his captor was setting up cleaning supplies and laying out an array of murder weapons with which to possibly dismember John’s body. When he heard the snap of rubber gloves being put on, his stomach turned and he thought he might retch. 

Just then, as he heard Mr. Bolding’s shoes walking back toward him across the carpeted floor, there was a knock at the door. Relief flooded his body at the thought that they might be interrupted by a possible witness. The knock was a tentative one, but when there was no response (Bolding had frozen on his way over to John and John dared not make a sound for fear the man would snap and attack him for it), it came again. A light rapping. Not at all official sounding like the hard knock of an arresting officer. 

“If you make a sound, I’ll kill you far slower than I’d originally planned,” Bolding whispered, before opening the door of the room where they were and going to investigate. 

“Mr. Bolding!” John could hear a high pitched male voice on the other side of the door in the next room. The voice sounded like it belonged to a delivery boy. It was tremulous and uncertain, a slight cockney accent rounding out the syllables of Bolding’s name. John’s chest constricted in fear that this poor lad, probably a teenager by the sound of it could be the next of Bolding’s victims. 

He held his breath and waited while his captor’s footsteps thumped towards the door. “Who’s there?” he asked, suspicion making his tone sharp. 

“Delivery for you Mr. Bolding. There’s no name on the package sept yours. They sent me over from the ed office to deliver it. Said you ad to sign for it.”

This seemed to pique Bolding’s interest, for John heard the door creak open. Then, immediately afterwards, he heard a gasp and a loud grunt and then the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the floor. John, fearing that the poor delivery boy had been attacked, began to twist his hands and feet in a fruitless attempt to free himself. 

He heard footsteps rushing towards him, heard the door to the room where he lay swing open and clenched his eyes shut, bracing for his captor to finish the job. What he felt instead was a pair of gentle hands gripping his shoulders and an oh so familiar voice calling his name.

“John! John! Are you alright?”

“Sherlock??” John’s eyes flew open and he was staring directly into Sherlock’s bright blue gaze, lit up by the torch that the other man had put on the floor near where John lay. Sherlock was on his knees, his face intent as he peered into John’s eyes. “Oh thank god Sherlock!”

“Are you harmed? Did he hurt you?” Sherlock asked, his voice tight, his eyes intent as they roamed down John’s body. His hands were swiftly patting John’s chest and arms, looking for injuries. 

“I’m OK. He hit me in the side of the head, but I’m OK,” John said, relief flooding through him in a heady rush. Sherlock fished a pen knife out of his pocket and quickly cut John’s hands and then his feet free and John struggled into a sitting position on the floor. Sherlock was next to him instantly, helping him sit, inspecting the lump on his forehead with gentle fingertips, his face drawn and pale with worry. John swore he’d never seen anything in his entire life as beautiful as Sherlock’s worried face, lit up by the light of his heavy police issue torch. 

“Where’s Bolding? Is he?”

“Passed out in the next room. Lestrade and a few officers are on their way over. I’ll be right back. _ Don’t try to stand. _” And with that Sherlock left John’s side for a few moments while John rubbed at his wrists and ankles and looked around the room where he’d been held captive. He could see now that it was a house. Probably Bolding’s house. Perhaps his wife was away? He hoped that Bolding hadn’t gone so far as to murder his own wife to cover up whatever crime he’d been attempting to get away with. 

Sherlock returned a few minutes later. “I tied him up so that we don’t have to worry about him,” he said simply, before kneeling again by John’s side. “Are you absolutely certain you’re alright John? Nothing other than the knock to your head?” His eyes were full of worry. 

“Yeah. Yeah I’m fine. I just need a minute to get my senses back.” John replied. “Help me up?”

Sherlock quickly obeyed, standing and offering John a warm hand to help pull him slowly to his feet. Once standing, John felt himself sway precariously and felt the room spin. In an instant, Sherlock’s arms were around him and their faces were centimeters apart. John closed his eyes, partly from dizziness and partly from what the smell of Sherlock’s cologne and the warmth of the other man’s body was doing to his addled senses. 

Soon, the room stopped spinning and he slowly and regretfully extricated himself from Sherlock’s embrace. “I’m fine now Sherlock. Thank you,” he mumbled, stumbling towards the door. Sherlock released him, but made sure to stay close, just in case John grew dizzy again. They walked slowly out to the main room together to see Mr. Bolding, knocked out cold and trussed up like a pig on the sitting room floor. 

“How did you find me?” John asked, putting a hand to his head to probe gently at the sore spot on his forehead. 

“I’ll tell you all about it later. First order of business though, is to get you to hospital. I’ve taken the liberty of calling you an ambulance.”

“Oh Sherlock, that won’t be necessary. I’ll be f-”

Before he could finish, Sherlock grabbed him by the shoulders and was staring deeply into John’s eyes, his gaze intent. He shook John gently as he spoke, his voice rough and low. “You’re to go to hospital and get yourself checked out. That’s not a request John. It’s an order.”

“An order, huh?” John’s voice was cynical, but inside, his heart was melting a little over Sherlock’s possessiveness and worry. “Fine then. If it’s an _ order _ then.” 

“Don’t jest, John. It’s not funny. You could have been killed. You could have.. Jesus John” Sherlock’s eyes were full of something John couldn’t quite place. Worry, but beneath the worry there lay panic. A deep fear John wasn’t sure he’d seen before. The taller man released John’s shoulders and turned away, hiding his face.

“Hey Sherlock. It’s Ok. I’m OK. Just a bump on the head really.”

He would have reassured Sherlock more, but just then Greg Lestrade arrived with three police officers, guns drawn and they had to take some time to explain what happened. The ambulance pulled up and Lestrade joined Sherlock in convincing John to climb inside and get himself to hospital. Lestrade said he would drive Sherlock over with him in the squad car while the other three officers took Mr. Bolding into custody. John settled into the cot in the back of the ambulance and let the ambulance personnel attend to his head, shine a flashlight in his eyes and check his vitals. 

As it turned out, he had a mild concussion and some broken capillaries in his forehead, but otherwise, he was fine. Sherlock and Lestrade arrived thirty minutes later, but though Lestrade came over to the bed to ask John how he felt, Sherlock hung back, keeping his eyes trained to the floor. 

John, afraid that he’d angered his friend, didn’t push him with any questions, didn’t ask how he was doing. He told Lestrade he was fine and would be released in a few minutes, with some low grade pain killers and a strong suggestion to take it easy for a couple of days. 

Lestrade nodded and smiled, giving John a companionable squeeze on his shoulder, then he strode out. “I’ll be in the lobby. Take your time,” he said to Sherlock as he left, letting the curtain fall behind him, leaving them alone. 

Sherlock didn’t move or speak. He stayed, standing on the far side of the curtained off room, his eyes trained down at the floor. John looked at him in silence for a moment, growing concerned as the seconds ticked by with no reaction from his friend. 

Finally, he summoned up the courage to speak. “Sherlock,” he began, his voice soft and tentative. 

“John. I’m sorry.” Sherlock still wasn’t looking at him, and his voice sounded miserable, low and strained. 

“Why would you be sorry?” John asked, truly confused by the detective’s words. “You’ve done nothing wrong. You rescued me in fact. It’s I who should be saying thank you.”

“No. No. No. Don’t you see John?” Sherlock finally raised his head to look at John, and his eyes were hollow and full of pain. It took John’s breath away. 

“Oh Sherlock… no” he started to reassure the other man, but Sherlock held up a hand to stop him from continuing. 

  
“John, please just let me speak.” John nodded and Sherlock continued, eyes cast down again at his feet, long pale hands clutched together at his waist. “John, I need to apologize. It was my idea to send you into Crosswick and Son’s to do undercover work. It was my reckless decision that almost got you killed. I should never have put you in danger that way. I had no idea that..”

“Yes, you had no idea,” John finished his sentence, unable to stay silent any longer “Neither of us did. I assumed that I’d take a quick look about the place and come home safe and sound. I had no idea Bolding was as far gone and reckless as he was.”

“Still. It was _ my _ doing. _ My _ decision that put you in danger. I need to be more careful with you. I need to .. I need to..” Sherlock’s voice had gone thick with emotion and John could only stare at him in surprise. He’d never seen Sherlock this upset. He got up from the hospital bed, ignoring the fact that he was still dressed in a ridiculous hospital gown and took a step toward Sherlock. Sherlock who held up his hand and turned away and stalked out of the room without another word. 

John hurried to find his clothes and put them on. He went in search of the attending physician and quickly signed release papers and rushed down to the lobby. He found Lestrade waiting for him. “He caught a cab home. Didn’t want to wait,” Lestrade explained, shrugging. “What did you say to him? He looked pretty upset”. 

“Nothing.. I said nothing,” John responded as he numbly followed Lestrade out to the squad car and got inside. The ride back to 221B was a quiet one. Lestrade spent some of the trip on the cb radio, communicating with the arresting officers at Scotland Yard. He let John out in front of the door to his flat with a wave and reminder to take it easy, and then he was off, driving away down the street. 

John made his way slowly up the stairs, his head still throbbing gently, but far better than when he’d woken up, trussed up and lying on the floor in Bolding’s house a couple of hours ago. He shuddered to think of what a death at the hands of a psychopath’s knife would have been like if Sherlock had not come along when he did.

He found Sherlock in the living room, laptop open, seemingly engrossed in something on the screen. “Hey,” he greeted the other man gently. “How are you?”

“I’m fine, John. Bolding was running a heroin ring out of Crowsswick and Son’s. He’d meet his dealer after hours in the office, it being safer than a street corner or a back alley. His other victims happened to witness these meetings and he simply killed them to keep them quiet. He got sloppy. Started using and it made him rash and desperate. As heroin is wont to do.”

He said all of this in one long breath, rattling out the details of the case as if he and John were still standing at the crime scene, talking with Lestrade’s officers instead of at home in their own sitting room. He still did not look at John, keeping his ice blue eyes trained on the screen in front of him. 

“How did you find me?” John asked, loath to bring up a topic that made Sherlock so withdrawn and regretful, but needing to know. 

“I traced the location of your cell phone of course. I got your text and knew it meant something had gone wrong. The idiot drove all the way to his house before he thought to destroy the thing.” John flinched a little with regret at the loss of his cell phone. All those pictures and files, personal information that was important to him that hadn’t been backed up, as well as the photo of the heroin baggy from Bolding’s office. “After that,” Sherlock continued stiffly “it was a simple task of hailing a cab over there and finding a way to get him to open the door. I figured that a paranoid drug dealer would find a nameless package delivered by an innocent sounding delivery boy too enticing to pass up, and I was right.”

“I had no idea it was you,” John said with a sly smile. “You’re quite the good voice actor. I was scared for that teenage boy, afraid Bolding would murder him too. I should have known it was you all along.”

“Yes.” Sherlock replied, his voice emotionless. “It was a gamble. I’m glad it worked. Now if you don’t mind, I need some time alone to do some research on the case to help Lestrade with the prosecution.” He still hadn’t raised his eyes from his computer screen.

“Sherlock. Look at me.” John knew this side of Sherlock. The stiff, evasive side of him that hid from his feelings behind a wall of prudishness and propriety. He knew Sherlock was trying to shut him out to avoid some uncomfortable emotion. Probably guilt and shame. He felt a stab of sympathy for the pale man sitting before him, resolutely ignoring John’s steady gaze. “Come on,” he pressed when Sherlock did not immediately comply “Look at me. I know something’s going on with you.”

He was relieved when Sherlock did look up and meet John’s eyes, but then took a step back at the fierce emotion contained therein. Sherlock’s face was a mask of pain and his eyes were bright and sharp, boring holes into John with the intensity of his gaze. “You almost _ died _ John. You _ almost died. _ And it was _ my fault _.”

“It wasn’t,” John was quick to contradict him. He hated seeing Sherlock in so much pain, feeling so much guilt. “I went willingly. I knew the risk I was taking.”

“I don’t _ care _ if you went willingly. I pressured you into it. You would never have gone if I hadn’t come up with the idea.. If I hadn’t thought of myself as so very _ clever. _” His voice on the last word was full of bitterness.

“Sherlock, don’t do this to yourself”.

Sherlock snapped the laptop shut and was out of his chair in a matter of seconds. He crossed the intervening space between them and had John’s face gripped in his hands before John could even gather the wherewithal to react. Sherlock put his face very close to John’s and gritted out through clenched teeth. “I almost got you _ killed _ John. I would never, _ ever _have forgiven myself if you… if you…”. His eyes were full of anguish and pain and John didn’t know what to do. So he leaned up and kissed him. 

Sherlock sucked in a surprised breath through his nose as John’s lips collided with his own. He froze for a heart stopping moment, but he rallied swiftly, using his hands on the sides of John’s face to pull John closer, to press his lips to John’s, almost painfully. He made a rough, desperate noise, half sob, half growl and wrapped his arms around John’s neck. John, stunned somewhat by Sherlock's intense reaction, felt his arms go around Sherlock's waist and pulled Sherlock against him tightly.

Sherlock’s hands had found their way up into John’s hair and he deepened the kiss roughly, urgently, slipping a questing tongue inside John’s mouth, making soft little grunts in the back of his throat. John gripped Sherlock’s narrow hips and pulled their bodies together, opening his mouth and welcoming the other man in eagerly, until their kiss was a sloppy, messy thing, uncontrolled and urgent and so _ so good _. 

John’s head was spinning. His body was on fire. Feeling Sherlock in his arms, willing and wild and hot like this was a dream come true. He splayed his hands over the small of Sherlock’s back and then, as if in a trance, gripped his shirt in double fistfulls, pulling it up and out of the top of Sherlock’s pants so that he could reach his hands underneath to feel the other man’s soft skin. An action that pulled twin moans from both of them.

Sherlock pulled back to look at John, eyes glazed over with feverish want. “John” he said, rough and low and urgent. “John. I could have lost you. _I could have lost you_. I... I...”

“I love you,” John blurted it out into the heated air between their open mouths. “Christ Sherlock. I love you so much I can’t think straight.” 

“I love you too, John” Sherlock said the words softly, carefully, his eyes searching John’s face. Then he smiled, and let the gust of a disbelieving laugh out through his beautiful mouth and John covered Sherlock’s smile with his lips and then they were kissing again. Sherlock’s hands were on John’s neck, then gently resting against his cheeks, then back up into his hair to grip soft handfuls in a way that made tingles shoot through John’s scalp and down his spine. 

Eventually, Sherlocks soft lips made their way across John’s jaw and then down onto the sensitive skin of his neck and John, his mouth now free, could not help but spill his confession out in gasps. “Oh fuck Sherlock. I’ve loved you for so long. I’ve wanted this for so fucking long. I was burning up with it.” 

Sherlock’s deep voice vibrated as he murmured into the skin under his lips between kisses “Yes John... I could feel you burning… I want this too... _ Dear god _ ... I’ve wanted this for _ so long. _” He returned his attention fully to John’s neck and John fought to stay upright. His knees were buckling under him, a series of loud gasps spilling from his open mouth as Sherlock’s lips slowly drove him out of his mind. And then he was actually collapsing. The world went a little dark around the edges, and he heard a surprised and dismayed noise from Sherlock.

He regained consciousness lying on the sofa, Sherlock’s worried face close to his own. “John, you passed out” He said, unnecessarily. 

“I did didn’t I? Maybe the doctor was right. Maybe I should take it easy,” he said, dazed by more than just his head injury as he looked up into Sherlock’s glowing blue eyes. 

“I’m sorry John. I didn’t know you were still so shaky.” Sherlock reached a hand up to stroke John’s cheek and this time John allowed himself to lean into the caress, closing his eyes and sighing deeply. 

“It’s fine. If kissing you makes me faint than I’ll gladly risk a loss of consciousness to get more of that.” 

Sherlock’s smile in response to this was so bright and beautiful that it almost hurt John’s eyes to see it. “Let's get you to bed,” he said, helping John to sit up and slinging one of John’s arms over his shoulders to help him walk.

“Now you’re talking,” John joked, hearing Sherlock’s soft grunt in response as they made their way to John’s bedroom. John found that he was in fact a bit shaky, and leaned appreciatively against Sherlock’s warm, lanky side for support as they made their way to his room. 

“You’ve been through a lot today John,” Sherlock was saying with solicitous tone to his voice that was making John’s insides all melty. “You’ve experienced physical and emotional trauma. I’m sorry I got so worked up and lost track of that.”

  
“_I’m _ not sorry,” John murmured as he let Sherlock help him into bed. “Don’t leave,” he said urgently, reaching out a hand to grasp Sherlock’s arm as the other man turned to walk away. “Stay with me. Please.”

Sherlock smiled and nodded and then climbed in bed next to John. John turned on his side away from Sherlock and felt the taller man spoon him, felt him press his lanky body all down the back of John and wrap a possessive arm around John’s waist. Sherlock’s other arm went under John’s neck, pillowing his head and John felt himself be pulled in tight against Sherlock’s warm body by the arm around his middle. He sighed deeply, luxuriating in the smell and feel of Sherlock’s embrace before drifting off to sleep. 

He woke at some point in the night, surrounded by delicious warmth, Sherlock still wrapped around him. John had rolled onto his back in his sleep and Sherlock had molded himself against John’s side, slinging a leg low over John’s hips. Sherlock’s lovely, sleeping face lay next to John’s on the pillow, turned towards John, his long lashes brushing the tops of his pale cheeks his soft mouth slightly open. He was snoring gently. John watched him for a few moments, simply enjoying the angelic look of Sherlock’s features, smoothed by sleep. He looked years younger than his true age when he slept. So much of Sherlock’s sharp harshness came from his spiky defenses. When he slept though, those defenses were down momentarily, and he looked like a young Greek god. Marble-pale, soft and languid. John adjusted his position slightly and this woke Sherlock a bit. The other man mumbled something unintelligible, then pulled John in closer with his arm and leg, pressing his front against John’s side, and suddenly, something became very anatomically obvious to John. 

Sherlock was erect. And that very enticing fact had John stiffening swiftly in response. He turned his head and placed a gentle kiss to Sherlock’s cheek and the dark haired man’s eyes fluttered open to gaze at him sleepily. He promptly buried his face in John’s neck and let out a deep, rumbling moan and John felt the vibrations of it in the very core of his body. It made him throb in response. He gasped and thrust his hips up gently against Sherlock’s leg and he heard Sherlock rumble again, this time, speaking directly into John’s ear with a velvety whisper.

  
“Mmmm. What have we here?”

The sound of Sherlock’s voice made John writhe a bit in the tall man’s arms.

“_ Sherlock _.” John couldn’t control the motions of his hips and thrust up again, gently but urgently against Sherlock’s long, lanky thigh where it rested across John’s crotch, directly over John’s stiffening cock. “Sherlock,” he repeated, unable to say anything else. The man’s name a plea, a heated request for more touch. 

Sherlock responded by rolling on top of John, pressing his pelvis down into John’s, pressing them together, and John sucked in a shocked breath at the feel of the much needed friction. Sherlock rocked forward gently, supporting himself with his elbows and this time, John cried out a little from the intense pleasure. He grabbed Sherlock’s arse in both of his hands and squeezed it, pulling him even tighter in and was rewarded by a hiss and a moan from the man on top of him.

“John, are you alright? Is this alright?” Sherlock, stilling his movements, whispered against John’s lips. “I don’t want to push if you’re feeling overwhelmed."

“You have no idea how alright this is. _ Please _ overwhelm me. I _ want _ to be overwhelmed,” John virtually begged as he started working to unbutton Sherlock’s shirt. Together they swiftly undressed, separating only long enough to remove their shirts and kick their trousers off before coming back together. 

“John you feel so good,” Sherlock breathed, and the pure awe in his voice made John remember something. 

“Hey, hey,” he said, gripping Sherlock’s flushed face in his hands “Have you done this before?” he asked softly.

“Not exactly,” Sherlock replied, looking down at John’s mouth and away from his eyes. Looking suddenly shy, his hips stilling in their movements against John. 

“What does ‘not exactly’ mean Sherlock?” John pressed gently, needing to know what he was getting into. 

“It means no, not at all” Sherlock said, voice growing stiff, “So if that doesn’t work for you, I’ll understand.” He started pulling away, and John, alarmed, was swift to reach for him and pull him back. 

“Dear god Sherlock. Of course it works! It _ works _. I’ve wanted you since about ten minutes after I first laid eyes on you. I.. I love you. I want this to feel good for you and I want to go at a pace you feel comfortable with.” 

“Ok. Ok good” Sherlock replied, appropriately mollified. “Just don’t expect anything special John. You’re the first person I’ve ever kissed. The first person I’ve ever _ wanted _ to kiss.” 

“Really?” John was shocked and tried not to show it. 

“Yes. Before you came along, I thought maybe sex wasn’t something I wanted in life. I had trouble trusting people. Trouble relaxing around people. I’m not exactly warm and cuddly you know.” John wanted to argue that Sherlock was very much warm and cuddly in this moment, but he stayed silent, hoping he would continue and reveal more. 

“You came into my life and you accepted me for exactly who I was,” Sherlock went on, and John found himself holding his breath as the other man talked, afraid that if he breathed, he’d miss something important in what Sherlock was saying. “I know I made you crazy and I know I was difficult, but you hung in there, and you got to know me. The real me. The me underneath my brain. And I couldn’t help but let you in. Couldn’t help but.. Love you”. 

“Oh _ Sherlock, _” John breathed.

“Shut up. I’m not finished,” Sherlock said gently. “John, you’re so very good. You’re so kind and so smart and so easy to be with. You made me want to be warmer, better.. You made me want to live again. You woke me up inside.” 

John gazed up into Sherlock’s sincere face and felt his heart breaking open and spilling warmth inside his chest, felt himself swell with love and affection for pale, earnest man lying in his arms. “Thank you.” he said softly. “Thank you, Sherlock.”

He drew Sherlock down into a kiss that started sweet and chaste and quickly turned heated and desperate and then Sherlock was moving above him again, pressing down into him with urgent little thrusts of his pelvis, whining, high in the back of his throat. John rolled them onto their sides, and reached down to run careful, exploratory fingertips over Sherlock’s stiff cock, and heard Sherlock’s surprised gasp in response. 

“Is this OK?” John asked, fingers stilling while he waited for an answer. 

“Yes,” Sherlock said roughly. “Yes, please. More.” And so John continued, running his finger tips lightly up the length of Sherlock’s cock, feeling the shape and texture and hot temperature of him, watching in delight as Sherlock’s head lolled backwards and his mouth fell open and his breath came fast. John was so aroused that it bordered on painful. The sight and sound of Sherlock, trembling under John’s fingers, gasping out in pleasure, had his senses on overload. He decided then though, that tonight would be about making Sherlock feel good. Sherlock who had never wanted sex until he’d wanted it with John. Well, that made John responsible for Sherlock’s pleasure. Made him responsible for taking Sherlock’s virginity. And if that were the case, he planned on making it as earth shatteringly good as possible. 

He kissed Sherlock’s flushed cheek and whispered to him “Can I put my mouth on you?” Sherlock’s only response was to moan and nod enthusiastically, and so John began the slow, enjoyable journey of kissing his way down Sherlock’s body, letting his lips finally caress and suck at that expanse of long, alabaster skin over wiry muscle. Skin that he’d longed to taste for months on end. Sherlock arched up against his lips as he went, wrapping his fingers in John’s hair and whispering heated half-sentences into the air of John’s bedroom. 

“_ Yes, John. Oh god. You feel so good. I love this. I love you. I love you. _”

By the time John had lovingly kissed his way down to Sherlock’s cock, the other man was thrusting his hips up and making desperate, soft grunting noises in the back of his throat. John doubted the experience would last very long, but that in and of itself was exciting to him. Making Sherlock lose control with his mouth was something he’d dreamed of on many lonely nights. To have his lover warm and willing and writhing beneath his attentions was a literal dream come true. He carefully gripped Sherlock at the base and wrapped his lips around the head of his cock, pausing to revel in the taste and feel of him while Sherlock squirmed and gasped beneath him. 

John slowly, oh so slowly let his lips slide down Sherlock’s length, pausing periodically to grip him at the base and give him time to recover before sliding a bit further. Sherlock looked as if he’d ascended to another plane of existence. His eyes were dilated, luminous and fixed on John. An endless stream of moans and gasps was issuing from his open mouth as he gazed intently at the place where John’s lips engulfed his cock. His hands were gripping in John’s hair, pulling John downward in urgent yet gentle tugging motions that John found at once sweetly endearing and searingly hot. 

It wasn’t long before John, with only a slight urge to gag (a sensation that he rather enjoyed to be honest), had Sherlock in his mouth to the hilt. He rested there for a moment, luxuriating in the feel of Sherlock lodged in the back of his throat, before he pulled back and then sank down again. 

“John! Oh _ fuck _!” Sherlock yelled out, then on the next up and down stroke he convulsed, coming hard with a series of sharp gasps as the hot splash of his semen filled John’s mouth. John rode it out with him, nodding and moaning his approval as Sherlock shuddered his way through what looked and felt like a massive orgasm. Eventually, when his gasping cries slowed and dissolved into deep breaths, John carefully disengaged and crawled up to wrap Sherlock in his arms and kiss his hot cheeks. He was surprised to find wetness there. 

“Are you OK, darling?” he asked, marveling at how easily the term of endearment left his lips, like a whisper from his heart. 

“I’m.. I’m fine John..” Sherlock let out a breathless, awed little laugh. “I’m just a bit stunned.” 

“Good. Good. I’d hate it if I did anything to harm you.”

“Oh John. No. You’ve opened me up and you’ve taken me apart, but you haven’t harmed me in the slightest.” Sherlock pressed grateful, loving kisses against the top of John’s head where it lay against his chest. 

They lay there for a while in silence, wrapped up in each other’s arms, John tracing looping patterns against the skin of Sherlock’s chest with his fingertips while Sherlock pressed soft kisses into John’s hair. 

“You’re still hard,” Sherlock remarked eventually, his voice dipping down into a lower register that always made John’s insides turn to dancing sparks. It felt good to simply revel in that pulse of desire, rather than feel like he had to hide it. 

“Mmm. Yes I am,” he responded, lazily thrusting into Sherlock’s hip. 

“Would you mind if I.. if I touched you?”

“Of course not,” John said through an indulgent smile over how innocent and tentative Sherlock was being. As if John hadn’t fantasized repeatedly about Sherlock touching him. The request for permission was laughably unnecessary, but John was touched that Sherlock wanted to be just as careful with him as he’d been with the other man. “I’d love that” he added, just in case Sherlock needed any extra encouragement and rolled onto his back, presenting his extremely erect cock for Sherlock’s inspection. 

Sherlock reached down a tentative hand and gently stroked his fingers up the length of John’s cock, just as John had done to him, perhaps learning by emulation. John’s arched into his touch, biting his lip and moaning in the back of his throat. 

“Yess,” he hissed out through gritted teeth. “Oh yes. Do that again please.”

Sherlock complied, running delicate fingertips over John’s length, back and forth while John felt his consciousness slowly slip away to be replaced by waves of delicious pleasure. A shattered, tingling part of his mind wondered if this was how Sherlock’s violin felt, being caressed by those lovely long fingers. “Please hold me. Hold it with your hand please,” John asked, and let out his breath in an explosive rush as Sherlock did as he was asked and wrapped a long fingered hand around the middle of John’s cock, giving it a gentle squeeze. 

“Is this OK John?” he asked and John could only nod swiftly. Sherlock, emboldened by the response he was getting gave John’s cock a gentle tug and was rewarded with a loud gasp. After that, he started stroking John, slowly and hesitantly at first, but gaining in confidence. Spurred on by John’s open mouthed moans, he grew bolder and worked John with more pressure and speed. John turned his head and pressed urgent kisses to the side of Sherlock’s neck and whispered encouragement into Sherlock’s ear, telling him “Yes. Yes. Yes. More please. You’re so good. Your hand feels so good on my cock. Oh god, you’re going to make me come with that hand.” 

Soon, Sherlock working him, the smell of Sherlock’s skin, the sound of his breath coming faster, had John rushing to the brink. He thrust his hips up into the movement of Sherlock’s fist and grunted as his orgasm pulsed through him, painting his stomach and chest with streaks of hot semen. John thought his conscious mind might leave his body with the strength of the pleasure that surged up and out of him. His legs trembled and his stomach clenched with the force of it. Sherlock kept up the movement of his hand until John stilled it with his own hand, having driven over the edge into hypersensitivity. All he could do then was lay there, gasping in Sherlock’s arms, feeling his cum cooling on his belly, gazing up at Sherlock’s awed face. 

“John,” Sherlock said, his tone breathless, hushed and reverent. “You’re so beautiful.” and the admiring, awed look on his face made John think he might be able to go again before too much time had elapsed. Sherlock’s delight in their touch. His fascination with John’s physical reactions to that touch… it.. Well, it was deeply affecting. 

John was wrung out and full of oxytocin and an absolutely love-sick mess of a man. He pulled Sherlock down into a deep kiss, then groaned as he rolled out of bed to go clean himself up. He did so swiftly with a wet flannel in the bathroom, wincing at the coldness of the water, but not wanting to wait long enough for it to heat up. Then he ran back to bed and climbed in next to Sherlock, back into Sherlock’s welcoming embrace.

Sherlock snuggled close, wrapping John up in arms that felt a mile long, and suddenly, a thought occurred to John. 

“Sherlock?” he asked, his voice a touch suspicious

“Yes John?”

“Yesterday afternoon… when you said you had a theory you wanted to test, and you stood near me in the kitchen..”

“Yes John?” Sherlock’s tone held the smallest spark of mirth, cluing John in to what his response to John’s question would be before he asked it. 

“Was that you... testing me to see if I was physically attracted to you?”

Sherlock grinned, his face rosy and golden in the yellow light of the lamp on the bedside table. “Yes.” He replied

“I knew it! I knew it! You almost gave me a heart attack with that ‘_ theory’ _ of yours”

“John, come now. I wasn’t sure that you wanted me. You were so jumpy and so skittish around me. I thought perhaps you were hiding some negative feelings for me. But I also picked up on certain looks. Certain ways you’d touch me in passing. The increase in blood to your face and your eyes dilating when we were close. I had to be sure.”

“And did you get the response you were looking for?” John, still reeling from an astounding orgasm he’d just been given by the man, was still unaccountably shy to hear Sherlock’s response. 

“Oh yes.” Sherlock replied, his grin growing broader. “You lit up like a lantern when I was near. Your pulse shot through the roof and your breath came faster and you started looking at me like I was a delicious pastry. It was quite lovely”

“So why didn’t you act on it?” John asked, perplexed. 

“I was scared” Sherlock admitted. “Scared that my data was flawed. Scared that I was projecting, imagining. That you really didn’t feel that way. I was a fool”

“That makes two of us” John sighed and buried his face in the sweet smelling crook of Sherlock’s shoulder, and felt Sherlock’s hand come up to run languid fingers through his hair. It felt like heaven. 

They fell asleep there, in a tangle of limbs, John’s shorter thicker arms and legs mingling with Sherlock’s long, lean ones. John wasn’t sure he’d ever been this happy in his entire life. He drifted off to sleep with the smell of Sherlock’s hair in his nose, his body tingling with the memories of their lovemaking.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need to thank my lovely and talented beta reader emilycare. It was her idea to send John to work at Crosswick and Son's, which really helped me develop the (not very developed) case in this fic. Thank you Em! you're the best!

John expected things to change drastically now that they were truly together. But in reality, not much did. Sherlock still drove him up the wall routinely. They still snapped at each other and had disagreements, and those disagreements and spats still often ended in both of them doubled over laughing. Only now, they kissed when they made up. 

They still kept their separate bedrooms, and John would visit Sherlock some nights, and on some nights Sherlock would visit John. Some nights, when John was exhausted, or Sherlock wanted to do research long into the night, they slept separately. But no matter where they slept, there were warm kisses of greeting in the morning over coffee and caresses and fond words before they parted ways. 

They had decided to keep their relationship a secret from Greg and Molly and Mrs. Hudson for a little while, but that all went down the drain quickly when Lestrade walked in on them snogging in the interview room a week later. And Mrs. Hudson, believing they’d been a couple this whole time, merely thought they were being extra affectionate. They kept the secret from Molly for the longest time, both of them nervous that she’d be hurt, being that she was head over heels for Sherlock. But to their surprise, she was actually glad for them. 

“I knew you wanted each other for a long time. It just wasn’t my place to say so,” she said shyly when they’d told her. “You’re really good for each other. I’m happy for you.” Her smile was only a little bit sad as she told them this. 

They cooked together most nights and went out to pubs every once in a while and worked cases with the same regularity as they had before becoming a couple, only now, every night they could truly come home to each other, and take comfort and pleasure in each other’s arms. John vowed to make up for all their lost time with an overabundance of affection and love and searing hot nights spent taking each other apart with hands and mouths. Sherlock did not complain in the slightest. Now, they touched often and affectionately, and there wasn’t that wall of nervous tension between them anymore, except when Sherlock planted slow, hot kisses down the side of John’s neck while John tried to focus on making tea. Then things did grow a bit tense, but in a good way. 

John had never been happier, and he delighted in seeing Sherlock warm up and let down his guard. The once stoic, blunt consulting detective grew far warmer and more demonstrative in his affections for his friends and family. He even hugged Mycroft once, while his brother stiffened in his arms and gave him a look that said he doubted Sherlock’s mental stability. 

After a few more months of submersing himself in Sherlock until he felt appropriately saturated, John had to struggle to remember what it was like to sleep alone, to pine and yearn for a man he thought he’d never have. A man who now rested so warmly and happily in his arms. 


End file.
